One dance with a duke pdf


 

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One Dance With A Duke Pdf

A handsome and reclusive horse breeder, Spencer Dumarque, the fourth Duke of Morland, is a member of the exclusive Stud Club, an organization so select it. one dance with a pdf one dance with a duke stud club 1 tessa dare Read & download One Dance with a Duke By. Tessa Dare for Free! PDF, ePub, Mobi. (c) >>> page 1 of 7 PDF File: bc One Dance With A Duke (Stud Club Trilogy) By Tessa.

London, June Blackberry glaze. Especially when the reason for her delight was not a triumph at the card table or a proposal of marriage, but rather the completion of a dinner menu. She could imagine it now. Something sweet, yet tart; surprising, yet familiar; inventive, yet frugal. At last, the answer had come to her. Blackberry glaze. Strained, of course. Ooh, perhaps mulled with cloves. Resolving to enter it in her menu book later, she swept the imaginary dish aside and compressed her grin to a half-smile. Summer at Briarbank would now officially be perfect. Bunscombe brushed past in a flounce of scarlet silk. Now there was a thought to quell her exuberance. A cherub-faced debutante swaddled in tulle grasped Amelia by the wrist. How can you remain so calm? And so it began.

One stud horse, ten brass tokens. And lost. And my cards…Amelia, I swear to you, they were unbeatable cards. If I had some other means of raising the funds, I would. God only knew what trouble would find Jack in the meantime. Ask Laurent for the money. Their eldest brother had married prudently, almost sacrificially. The family had been desperate for funds at the time, and Winifred had come with bags of money from her mining magnate father.

The old man would never authorize the use of four hundred pounds to pay off a gaming debt. Yes, she understood. He vaulted the low terrace rail. Rattling the coins in his palm, he backed away into the garden. I never was any good with lessons. What cruel turn of events was this? Briarbank, rented for the summer! All the happiness stored up in those cobbled floors and rustic hearths and bundles of lavender hanging from the rafters—wasted on strangers.

All her elaborate menus and planned excursions, for naught. Her brother had nowhere to recover from his grief. And somehow more lowering than all this: She had no place of her own. Accepting spinsterhood had not been easy for Amelia. But she could resign herself to the loneliness and disappointment, she told herself, so long as she had summers at that drafty stone cottage. Those few months made the rest of the year tolerable. Whilst her friends collected lace and linens for their trousseaux, Amelia contented herself by embroidering seat covers for Briarbank.

As they entertained callers, she entertained thoughts of begonias in the window box. When she—an intelligent, thoughtful, well-bred lady—was thrown over nightly for her younger, prettier, lack-witted counterparts, she could fool herself into happiness by thinking of blackberry glaze. Lord, the irony. Alone on the terrace, she started to tremble. Destiny clanged against her hopes, beating them down one hollow ring at a time. Somewhere inside, a clock was tolling midnight.

From the head of the staircase, Spencer watched the throng of guests divide on cue, falling to either side like two halves of an overripe peach. And there, in the center, clustered the unmarried young ladies in attendance—stone-still and shriveling under his gaze. As a general point, Spencer disliked crowds. He particularly disliked over-dressed, self-important crowds.

And this scene grew more absurd by the night: the cream of London society, staring up at him with unguarded fascination.

Fair enough.

It was a useful—often lucrative—thing, to be unreadable. No matter. It also was a useful thing, at times, to be feared. No, it was the last bit that had him quietly laughing. The silent plea that only rang louder every time he entered a ballroom. Here, take one of our daughters. Must he?

As he descended the travertine staircase, Spencer girded himself for yet another unpleasant half hour. Given his preference, he would retreat back to the country and never attend another ball in his life. But while he was temporarily residing in Town, he could not refuse all invitations. If he wished to see his ward Claudia well-married in a few years, he must pave the way for her eventual debut. And occasionally there were high-stakes card games to be found in the back rooms of these affairs, well away from the white-powdered matrons playing whist.

So he made his appearance, but strictly on his own terms. One set, no more. As little conversation as possible. And if the ton were determined to throw their sacrificial virgins at his feet…he would do the choosing.

He wanted a quiet one tonight. Usually he favored them young and vapid, more interested in preening for the crowd than capturing his notice. Quite pretty, with a vivacious arch to her brow and plump, rosy lips. The thing was, those lips lost all their allure when she kept them in constant motion. While most women eagerly supplied both sides of any conversation, Miss Waterford would not be satisfied with his repertoire of brusque nods and inarticulate clearings of the throat.

That was his reward for indulging aesthetic sensibilities. Enough with the pretty ones. For his partner tonight, he would select a meek, silent, wallflower of a girl.

She need only be quiet. As he approached the knot of young ladies, his eye settled on a slender reed of a girl standing on the fringe of the group, looking positively jaundiced in melon-colored satin. When he advanced toward her, she cowered into the shadow of her neighbor.

She refused to even meet his gaze.

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Just as he extended his hand in invitation, he was arrested by a series of unexpected sounds. The rattle of glass panes. The slam of a door. Heels clicking against travertine in a brisk, staccato rhythm. Spencer swiveled instinctively. A youngish woman in blue careened across the floor like a billiard ball, reeling to a halt before him. His hand remained outstretched from his aborted invitation to Miss Melony Satin, and this newly-arrived lady took hold of it firmly.

I would be honored. The clump of disappointed ladies dispersed in search of new partners, grumbling as they went. And for the first time all season, Spencer found himself partnered with a lady not of his choosing. She had selected him. How very surprising. How very unpleasant. Nevertheless, there was nothing to be done. The impertinent woman queued up across from him for the country dance.

Did he even know this lady? As the other dancers fell into place around them, he took the opportunity to study her.

He found little to admire. Any measure of genteel poise she might claim had fallen casualty to that inelegant sprint across the ballroom. Stray wisps of hair floated about her face; her breath was labored with exertion.

This state of agitation did her complexion no favors, but it did enhance the swell of her ample bosom. She was amply endowed everywhere, actually.

Generous curves pulled against the blue silk of her gown. I would not expect you to remember. Her late father had been the seventh Earl of Beauvale. Her elder brother, Laurent, was currently the eighth Earl of Beauvale.

One Dance with a Duke

And her younger brother Jack was a scapegrace wastrel who owed Spencer four hundred pounds. It can wait for the waltz. This was going to be a very long set. But that would necessitate social calls, and Spencer did not make social calls. Perhaps he could direct his secretary to send notes? The entire situation was wearying.

The country dance ended. The waltz began. And he was forced to take her in his arms, this woman who had just made his life a great deal more complicated. To her credit, she wasted no time with pleasantries. My brother owes you a great sum of money.

The precise amount is inconsequential. For us, four hundred pounds is a vast sum of money. We simply cannot spare it. Do you mean to offer me favors in lieu of payment? He was a man. And she was a buxom woman, poured into a form-fitting dress. Parts of him were finding parts of her vaguely interesting. From his advantage of height, he could spy the dark freckle dotting the inner curve of her left breast, and time and again, he found his gaze straying to the small imperfection.

Spencer was not in the habit of ingratiating himself, with anyone. Clearly the woman lacked the sense to follow logic. As was further evidenced by her next comment. He was only caught in the middle as you drove the betting high. You wanted Mr. Frustration exuded from her every pore, and with it wafted her own unique feminine scent. She smelled nice, actually. Just the common aromas of plain soap and clean skin, and the merest suggestion that she tucked sprigs of lavender between her stored undergarments.

Blue eyes locked with his. He could explain to her that forgiving the debt would do both her brother and her family a great disservice. They would owe a debt of gratitude more lasting and burdensome than any debt of gold, impossible to repay. Worst, Jack would have no incentive to avoid repeating the mistake. In a matter of weeks, the youth would land in even deeper debt, perhaps to the tune of thousands. All this he might have explained. But he was the Duke of Morland. She set her teeth.

And there is nothing I can say to persuade you otherwise? He felt the tremor beneath his palm, where his hand pressed against the small of her back. Despite his efforts, she only trembled more violently. Small sounds, something between a hiccough and a squeak, emanated from her throat. Against his better judgment, he pulled back to study her face.

The woman was laughing. His heart began to beat a little faster. Steady, man. You do waltz like a dream. Ask Laurent for the money. Their eldest brother had married prudently, almost sacrificially. The family had been desperate for funds at the time, and Winifred had come with bags of money from her mining magnate father.

The old man would never authorize the use of four hundred pounds to pay off a gaming debt. Yes, she understood. He vaulted the low terrace rail. Rattling the coins in his palm, he backed away into the garden. I never was any good with lessons. What cruel turn of events was this? Briarbank, rented for the summer! All the happiness stored up in those cobbled floors and rustic hearths and bundles of lavender hanging from the rafters—wasted on strangers.

All her elaborate menus and planned excursions, for naught. Her brother had nowhere to recover from his grief. And somehow more lowering than all this: She had no place of her own. Accepting spinsterhood had not been easy for Amelia. But she could resign herself to the loneliness and disappointment, she told herself, so long as she had summers at that drafty stone cottage.

Those few months made the rest of the year tolerable. Whilst her friends collected lace and linens for their trousseaux, Amelia contented herself by embroidering seat covers for Briarbank. As they entertained callers, she entertained thoughts of begonias in the window box. When she—an intelligent, thoughtful, well-bred lady—was thrown over nightly for her younger, prettier, lack-witted counterparts, she could fool herself into happiness by thinking of blackberry glaze.

Lord, the irony. Alone on the terrace, she started to tremble. Destiny clanged against her hopes, beating them down one hollow ring at a time. Somewhere inside, a clock was tolling midnight. From the head of the staircase, Spencer watched the throng of guests divide on cue, falling to either side like two halves of an overripe peach.

And there, in the center, clustered the unmarried young ladies in attendance—stone-still and shriveling under his gaze. As a general point, Spencer disliked crowds. He particularly disliked over-dressed, self-important crowds. And this scene grew more absurd by the night: the cream of London society, staring up at him with unguarded fascination.

Fair enough. It was a useful—often lucrative—thing, to be unreadable. No matter. It also was a useful thing, at times, to be feared. No, it was the last bit that had him quietly laughing. The silent plea that only rang louder every time he entered a ballroom.

Here, take one of our daughters. Must he? As he descended the travertine staircase, Spencer girded himself for yet another unpleasant half hour. Given his preference, he would retreat back to the country and never attend another ball in his life.

But while he was temporarily residing in Town, he could not refuse all invitations. If he wished to see his ward Claudia well-married in a few years, he must pave the way for her eventual debut. And occasionally there were high-stakes card games to be found in the back rooms of these affairs, well away from the white-powdered matrons playing whist.

So he made his appearance, but strictly on his own terms. One set, no more. As little conversation as possible. And if the ton were determined to throw their sacrificial virgins at his feet…he would do the choosing.

He wanted a quiet one tonight. Usually he favored them young and vapid, more interested in preening for the crowd than capturing his notice. Quite pretty, with a vivacious arch to her brow and plump, rosy lips. The thing was, those lips lost all their allure when she kept them in constant motion. While most women eagerly supplied both sides of any conversation, Miss Waterford would not be satisfied with his repertoire of brusque nods and inarticulate clearings of the throat. That was his reward for indulging aesthetic sensibilities.

Enough with the pretty ones. For his partner tonight, he would select a meek, silent, wallflower of a girl.

She need only be quiet. As he approached the knot of young ladies, his eye settled on a slender reed of a girl standing on the fringe of the group, looking positively jaundiced in melon-colored satin. When he advanced toward her, she cowered into the shadow of her neighbor. She refused to even meet his gaze.

Just as he extended his hand in invitation, he was arrested by a series of unexpected sounds. The rattle of glass panes. The slam of a door. Heels clicking against travertine in a brisk, staccato rhythm. Spencer swiveled instinctively.

A youngish woman in blue careened across the floor like a billiard ball, reeling to a halt before him. His hand remained outstretched from his aborted invitation to Miss Melony Satin, and this newly-arrived lady took hold of it firmly.

I would be honored. The clump of disappointed ladies dispersed in search of new partners, grumbling as they went. And for the first time all season, Spencer found himself partnered with a lady not of his choosing. She had selected him.

How very surprising. How very unpleasant.

Nevertheless, there was nothing to be done. The impertinent woman queued up across from him for the country dance. Did he even know this lady? As the other dancers fell into place around them, he took the opportunity to study her. He found little to admire. Any measure of genteel poise she might claim had fallen casualty to that inelegant sprint across the ballroom. Stray wisps of hair floated about her face; her breath was labored with exertion.

This state of agitation did her complexion no favors, but it did enhance the swell of her ample bosom. She was amply endowed everywhere, actually. Generous curves pulled against the blue silk of her gown. I would not expect you to remember.

Her late father had been the seventh Earl of Beauvale. Her elder brother, Laurent, was currently the eighth Earl of Beauvale. And her younger brother Jack was a scapegrace wastrel who owed Spencer four hundred pounds.

It can wait for the waltz. This was going to be a very long set. But that would necessitate social calls, and Spencer did not make social calls. Perhaps he could direct his secretary to send notes? The entire situation was wearying.

The country dance ended. The waltz began. And he was forced to take her in his arms, this woman who had just made his life a great deal more complicated. To her credit, she wasted no time with pleasantries.

My brother owes you a great sum of money. The precise amount is inconsequential. For us, four hundred pounds is a vast sum of money. We simply cannot spare it. Do you mean to offer me favors in lieu of payment?

He was a man. And she was a buxom woman, poured into a form-fitting dress. Parts of him were finding parts of her vaguely interesting. From his advantage of height, he could spy the dark freckle dotting the inner curve of her left breast, and time and again, he found his gaze straying to the small imperfection.

One Dance with a Duke | Tessa Dare

Spencer was not in the habit of ingratiating himself, with anyone. Clearly the woman lacked the sense to follow logic. As was further evidenced by her next comment. He was only caught in the middle as you drove the betting high. You wanted Mr. Frustration exuded from her every pore, and with it wafted her own unique feminine scent.

She smelled nice, actually. Just the common aromas of plain soap and clean skin, and the merest suggestion that she tucked sprigs of lavender between her stored undergarments. Blue eyes locked with his. He could explain to her that forgiving the debt would do both her brother and her family a great disservice.

They would owe a debt of gratitude more lasting and burdensome than any debt of gold, impossible to repay. Worst, Jack would have no incentive to avoid repeating the mistake. In a matter of weeks, the youth would land in even deeper debt, perhaps to the tune of thousands. All this he might have explained.

But he was the Duke of Morland. She set her teeth. And there is nothing I can say to persuade you otherwise? He felt the tremor beneath his palm, where his hand pressed against the small of her back. Despite his efforts, she only trembled more violently. Small sounds, something between a hiccough and a squeak, emanated from her throat. Against his better judgment, he pulled back to study her face.

PDF - One Dance with a Duke

The woman was laughing. His heart began to beat a little faster. Steady, man. You do waltz like a dream. The left did not. Why not gratefully allow to the conversation to die? Whether she smiled more genuinely, more freely in situations that did not involve debasing herself over large debts, or whether the lone dimple was merely another of her intrinsic imperfections, like the unmatched freckle on her breast?

I can pass the remainder of the set moping about it, or I can enjoy myself. Before they even enter a gathering, they have made up their minds to be displeased with it.

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