My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)

by Caroline Linden

  The duke merely bowed his head and opened the door. He took her through the formal dining room, glorious in red damask, with three crystal chandeliers and an enormous painting of the wedding at Cana. “My mother expanded it,” he said as Sophie exclaimed over the size of the room in a country house. “She entertained a great deal.”

  Because she found this beautiful house dull and quiet. Sophie suspected Philip took after his mother; he also was ever in search of society and gaiety, while the duke seemed far more restrained.

  She reconsidered that thought when they reached the library. Despite the rain and general gloom of the day, the library was glorious. The room was a large oval, with walls of celery green and white woodwork. A pair of marble columns at either end of the room set off the shelves of books that filled both rounded ends of the oval. Last night it had been too dark, and she’d been too irate, to take it in, but today—­

  “How beautiful,” she burst out. “And I didn’t notice any of it last night!”

  The duke walked to the tall windows and looked out. “Why is that, I wonder?”

  “Well, you were being terribly vexing,” she replied absently, wandering about the room in awe. “I was concentrating very hard on keeping my temper.”

  “Oh?” He leaned one shoulder against the shutter and watched her. “What did you want to say that you didn’t?”

  She glanced at him, startled. Thanks to the numerous windows in here, the light was better. His gaze was just as clear and focused as the night before, but somehow less piercing. The acid edge of scorn was gone, and it made her unfortunately aware again of how attractive he was.

  No. Giles Carter was attractive, with his square jaw and the distinguished touches of gray at his temples. The Duke of Ware was magnificent. If she hadn’t landed against him in the Blue Room and felt for herself how alive and real he was, she would have thought him an artist’s creation of marble, standing there in the watery light in his perfectly tailored clothing and expensive boots and golden hair that had just enough wave to make him imperfect.

  And here she stood in the borrowed dress of a housemaid who’d been sacked. She drew a deep breath and felt the sturdy fabric rasp against her skin, reminding her that she was only a few steps above that housemaid—­an immaterial difference to a man like the duke.

  “I wanted to tell you to bugger off,” she said lightly.

  The duke’s eyebrows shot up, as if no one in the world had ever told him to bugger off. “Did you really?”

  Sophie laughed, resuming her tour of the library. A glass case held an array of miniatures, and she bent down to have a closer look. “I certainly did. How dare you call me a hardened gamester and say you recognized what kind of woman I am? You know nothing about me.”

  Ware cleared his throat. “I know a little.”

  Still bent over the case of miniatures, she flipped one hand. “You know a very little—­mostly that I cannot resist an enormous wager with someone who seems determined to lose to me.”

  “That is significant.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged, “but by no means the sum of my character.” She glanced up with a mischievous smile. “I daresay the same could be said about Philip.”

  “Not to his credit.” The duke folded his arms. “How did you meet my brother?”

  “At Somerset House.” Sophie savored his start of surprise. “The Royal Academy exhibition. Are you astonished I would attend such an event?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You are.” She arched her brows in teasing. “Don’t worry, I’m not offended. We already agreed you know nothing about me.”

  “What I thought,” he said gravely, “was how incredible it was for Philip to attend. I freely admit I do not know you, but I am well acquainted with my brother, and the Royal Academy is one place I never would have guessed to find him.”

  “Oh.” She pressed her lips together in chagrin. “My mistake.”

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Don’t worry. I’m not offended. You know nothing about me.”

  A wry smile crossed her face as he repeated her own words back to her. “Now you know another of my failings: I am sometimes quick to judgment.”

  Unexpectedly he grinned back at her. Sophie took an involuntary step backward. With his face lit by mirth, the Duke of Ware was unbearably attractive. She imagined most women would find him so even at his most severe, but when he smiled . . . Oh, when he smiled, he looked like the sort of man even she could lose her head over. “Something we have in common, Mrs. Campbell.”

  “Indeed?” she asked brightly, trying to scrub away all thoughts of losing her head over the duke. “How unflattering to both of us.”

  “And yet proof that we may understand each other better than it seems.” Sophie closed her mouth at this subtle but unmistakable reproof as the duke strolled over to stand beside her. He gazed into the case as she stared at him, helpless to stop. It was one thing to find him attractive, in a wholly objective way, and quite another to feel the tug of attraction at close range.

  Well . . . The tug was more like a steadily increasing pull. She could see the lock of his hair, tawny gold, that had caught on his neckcloth, curling it romantically upward; he smelled of rich, clean male, with a whiff of coffee. He glanced sideways at her, his eyes vivid blue today, and something elemental deep inside her seemed to swell in anticipation—­and even worse, longing.

  “What else do we have in common, I wonder?” he murmured.

  Sophie tensed. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  He must be standing too close to her; she felt hot and breathless and edged back a step to clear her head. “You sound as if you know something I don’t. What do you think we have in common, Your Grace?”

  His mouth quirked again. “Determination.”

  “In service of very different goals,” she said trenchantly.

  “I acted to keep my brother from ruin.”

  “While I acted—­or rather, argued—­to save myself from ruin. You’ll forgive me if I don’t prize Philip’s survival above my own.”

  “Survival,” he said thoughtfully. “I never thought Philip’s survival was at stake, only his good name and credit. Did you really fear yourself at risk?”

  She still did. There was a very delicate balance between doing what she had to do to earn her income and maintaining her nominal respectability. “If you knew what it costs a woman to lose her good name, you wouldn’t possibly ask that. But then, as a duke, I daresay you could do just about anything and still be welcome everywhere.”

  “Are you envious of that? Do you also wish to be welcome anywhere?”

  He was prying, trying to puzzle her out. That’s what she was trying to do to him, and she did not appreciate her own tactic being turned on her. Sophie drifted back another step and gave him an arch look. “If so, it must have worked. A duke was willing to risk five thousand pounds against the mere chance of winning my company!”

  “Indeed.” His gaze swept over her, fleeting but thorough. It wasn’t a cynical glance, sizing her up as a charlatan. It was a glance of male assessment, and her body reacted to it, flushing warm from head to toe. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who felt that pull. “Will that wager close some doors to you?”

  She laughed lightly. “It may open the wrong ones.”

  “So it was a mistake.”

  “Only because I lost,” Sophie shot back, nettled.

  He rocked back on his heels. She savored the hit and turned to the shelves. “Do you read? What a fine library.”

  “Every day,” he replied. “Though rarely anything so amusing as that.”

  She looked closer at the finely tooled binding her fingertips were brushing. The books here must be worth a fortune. Each and every one was bound in leather. “But you own it.”

  “Owning it is the smallest pa
rt of savoring it.”

  “That is your loss, when the opportunity is always at hand.” She selected a book from the shelf and opened it, flipping pages for a moment. “ ‘There is great satisfaction in quarreling with her; and I think she never appears to such advantage as when she is doing everything in her power to plague me.’ ” She gave him a saucy look. “Perhaps you should read more. There’s tremendous wisdom in these pages.”

  A thin line appeared between his brows. He put out one hand, and Sophie obligingly handed over the book. He read the page in silence, then aloud, “ ‘How pleasingly she shows her contempt for my authority.’ ” He tilted his head and gave her a look. “I see you’re familiar with this one.”

  “I have seen that play performed, yes,” she said. Too late she realized her voice had gone breathless and soft.

  He slid the book back on the shelf and let his hand linger there, right beside her head. “I don’t doubt it.” And he smiled.

  He stood very close to her, his elbow brushing her arm. She ought to step away again, but somehow she stayed where she was. The duke might claim the wager was nothing but a means to separate her from Philip, but she sensed that he wouldn’t mind enjoying her company in more intimate ways.

  Men had flirted with her before; some had tried to seduce her. Sophie knew very well when a man’s interest had been aroused. Once she had given in to a pursuit, years ago. It had been a heady experience, fraught with youthful passion and the thrill of being so wicked. When her head cleared, she’d realized what a risk it was. Her lover had been generous and kind, but when he broke with her, she’d breathed a sigh of relief that it was over without serious repercussion. Since then she had ignored, deflected, and parried every attempt men made to seduce her. It was safer, if less exciting.

  Tonight she was keenly aware of how much less exciting it was. Normally she didn’t feel any reciprocal interest, and was a little shocked that she did this time. Even worse, she’d felt it last night, when he was still being condescending and accusing her of trying to ruin his brother. Today he was smiling at her and being charming, and Sophie was discovering that she could ignore her own attraction as long as she didn’t like him, but when he smiled and let down his guard . . . That flicker of humor and humanity turned him from a cold, haughty duke into an irresistibly attractive man. A man she was marooned with, in this beautiful house, in perfect privacy and seclusion . . .

  She flinched as she realized how wildly her thoughts were wandering. Idiot, she told herself. The worst possible thing she could do now would be to let herself be seduced by the duke, a man she didn’t know, who thought her a cheat. She had to put a stop to this now, before either of them went too far.

  “Enough ponderous philosophy.” She beamed up at him. “We must teach you how to gamble, Your Grace.”

  Chapter 8

  Jack had to send for a servant to locate cards. He dimly remembered card tables being set up in the library when his mother hosted parties here, but that had been years ago. He’d never had guests at Alwyn House since his father’s death.

  He watched Mrs. Campbell make herself at home on the same sofa where she’d tormented him the previous evening with her bare toes. Today she wore a discarded housemaid’s dress, a garment devoid of any seductive traits, and yet he felt more fascinated than ever. Who was this woman and why was he apparently helpless to stop her from driving him mad? Michaels returned with a deck of cards, and she thanked him with a glowing smile that made Jack’s stomach tighten. He wanted her to smile at him that way.

  “You’re very adept at this,” he remarked as she shuffled the deck with the ease of a croupier. Instead of focusing his mind on how she had learned such scandalous skills, it only made him wonder what her nimble fingers would feel like on his skin.

  She smiled modestly, the cards flying as she dealt. “Every woman has a deep well of hidden talents, Your Grace.”

  A riot of dangerous thoughts sprang up in Jack’s brain. What sort of talents did she have hidden, he wanted to ask. He shifted in his seat. “And secrets?”

  “As many as men do, I suppose.” She set down the deck and motioned to the cards in front of him. “Have you played loo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unlimited loo?” she asked with a sparkling smile.

  Unlimited loo could ruin a man in a night’s time. “Already looking for a new victim to beggar?”

  She batted her lashes at him as she swept up her cards. By now he recognized it as a warning instead of an invitation. “You know me too well, sir.”

  He didn’t know her, not at all, he was realizing—­but his curiosity was growing by leaps and bounds. “We haven’t got enough players for loo.”

  She sent him a stern look over her cards. She was holding them in front of her face on purpose, he thought. “We haven’t got money, either. It’s a lesson, Your Grace, to preserve you from any further significant losses.”

  He smiled and finally picked up his cards. “Pass.”

  “What?” She lowered her cards and blinked at him. Passing ended his role in the game. “No, you may not pass. That ruins the game.”

  “That also preserves my fortune.” He grinned at her expression, so beautifully nonplussed. “See how easily it happened? I’ve lost nothing.”

  “And also won nothing!”

  Jack put the cards back on the table. “I don’t need to win anything. Why do you?”

  “It’s quite a thrill,” she said after a barely perceptible hesitation. “I understand the concept might be very strange to you, but I recommend it.”

  “Winning?” He leaned back in his chair. “I won last night.”

  Pink colored her cheeks. “An occasion I’m sure you regret deeply.”

  He studied her for a moment. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think so.”

  She glanced up at him, wary and watchful. “I have failed dreadfully if your victory last night has given you the slightest satisfaction.”

  It had been far more than slightly satisfying. “It achieved my immediate objective.”

  Her eyes flashed, and she threw her cards down. “Philip! I vow, one might think he’s your son, from the desperate lengths you’ll go to for his sake.”

  Jack thought of what his father might have done, in his place. The late duke had been decent through and through. If he were still alive, Philip would no doubt be sitting here now, penitent and chastened, willingly submitting to whatever the duke decreed his punishment would be. Jack imagined his brother mucking out stalls in the stable, or helping plow a field on one of Kirkwood’s tenant farms.

  Of course, if their father were still alive, Philip probably wouldn’t have fallen into such rakish behavior. The duke had been a patient man, tolerating a fair amount of youthful hell-­raising, but only to a point. He wanted his sons to be strong, honorable men, and he would have put a stop to Philip’s gambling before it became ruinous—­something Jack had failed to do. “Philip hardly views me with such respect.”

  She met his gaze head-­on for a moment, then gathered up the cards. “Perhaps we should start with something simpler.” She dealt again, tossing a pair of cards in front of him. “Vingt-­un.”

  “What will I win?” he asked softly.

  “Not me,” was her swift retort.

  Jack grinned again. “How about . . .” He paused, thinking. “Music.”

  She jerked. “What?”

  “A song on the pianoforte.”

  “It’s horribly out of tune,” she protested.

  He made a dismissive gesture. He’d seen the way her eyes devoured the instrument. Music meant something to her. Even her protest hummed with longing. He said nothing, just waited.

  Her gaze dropped to her cards. She reordered them in her hand. “Your ears will regret it,” she warned at last, “but if you insist, so be it.”

  “I accept the risk.”

&n
bsp; “Then you’d better pay attention and win,” she said tartly.

  They played for an hour. Jack had agreed to the game only as a means to learn more about her, but he found himself drawn in. He already knew vingt-­un, of course; he’d played it years ago, whiling away time when forced to attend balls at his mother’s instigation. Back then he’d been relatively adept at it, and even years out of practice, he fell back into a reasonable rhythm with the game. Within minutes, though, he realized Mrs. Campbell was far, far better at it than he’d ever dreamed of being. She smiled and spoke as easily, even as pertly, as ever, but her eyes noted every play. The way her fingers touched the cards was sensual. The way she tilted her head and smiled when asking if he wanted another card was distracting—­purposely so, he was sure. And her knack with the game was uncanny. After a time he realized she had to be keeping a tally in her head of all the cards played, increasing her chances of winning.

  In short, she played like a professional.

  Could that be? Jack tried to keep his attention on the game enough to avoid humiliation even as questions about the woman opposite him sprouted by the dozens in his mind. It would explain how she trounced Philip, who was—­as she had said—­utterly reckless when gaming. Jack had believed his brother was mostly distracted by her splendid bosom, but now thought there might be more to it than that.

  Of course, if she really were as skilled as the men who supported themselves at the tables, why hadn’t she beggared Philip yet? She certainly could have. Perhaps it was out of some regard for his brother, but after some thought, Jack got the idea that she wanted to win, but never too large an amount. That would explain her horror at his actions and her angry charge that he was making a spectacle of her. She was a regular at Vega’s, everyone knew her and gambled with her, but she did not crave attention. Winning huge sums night after night would make her infamous.