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

by Caroline Linden

  Ware looked astonished and came over for a closer look. He inspected the spear for a moment, then gave her a strange glance. “It’s an old fire fork. Unless our enemies were attempting to invade the house through the fireplace, I doubt it struck down anyone.”

  She made a face and replaced the fire fork, which really ought to have been a spear. “How ordinary.”

  He smiled. “I did warn you.”

  That sapped any interest from opening more crates. Sophie surveyed the trunks nearest them. “What is this?” She touched a small silver badge hammered into the end of one.

  The duke brought the lamp and stooped to see it. His shoulder brushed her elbow as he did, sending a charge through her that went right down to her toes. She drew back, unconsciously rubbing the spot. She would have retreated more but there was no room—­she was stuck with her back against the crates and his broad shoulders and golden head right in front of her, almost on his knees at her feet. Right at the perfect level for her to plow her fingers into the rumpled waves of his hair.

  Horrified, she forced her eyes up to stare fixedly at the rafters above them. He was a sinfully handsome man. He was being very kind today, indulging her interest in rummaging through old furniture. Before she could stop them, Georgiana’s words pattered through her mind about making one of the gentlemen she met at Vega’s fall in love with her, and she couldn’t help remembering that she had met Ware at Vega’s.

  She had kept the men she wagered with at arm’s length for the most part; she didn’t want to marry an avid gambler. But the Duke of Ware was not a gambler at all. Nor was he the cold, boring drudge Philip had described. He was almost unbearably attractive, particularly when he smiled, and he was attracted to her. And her body was suddenly warming to the idea of flirting with him up here in this shadowy private world where only the two of them existed . . .

  “My grandmother’s monogram,” he said, making her start. “The W for Wilhelmina beneath the ducal coronet.” He rose to stand beside her. “She was a capital rider,” he remarked. “Even in her old age she kept an excellent stable.”

  Sophie was endeavoring to ignore how his arm was right next to hers, and how she would be practically in his arms if she made a quarter turn to her left. “Wilhelmina,” she said, seizing on any distraction. “What an unusual name.”

  “Her father was a Prussian archduke. The marriage was arranged because my great-­grandfather thought it would curry favor with George II if his son wed a bride from Hanover.”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  He sighed in exasperation. “Yes, it was arranged for political advantage. But I do believe they were fond of each other, and my grandfather never exiled her anywhere. In fact, he indulged her a great deal. Her horses were imported from the finest stables in Europe.”

  “A veritable love match,” she said. “I feel vastly relieved to know it, for their sakes.”

  He gave her an exasperated glance. “Must everyone have a love match?”

  “Of course not. People are free to marry for misery, or for money, or for any reason they choose.”

  “I suppose you would know,” he said. “Having been married.”

  Right—­the mythical Mr. Campbell. During her long trip on the mail coach from Bath to London three years ago, Sophie had created an entirely new history for herself, including a sadly deceased husband. In her mind, Mr. Campbell had been tall and thin, a bit sickly but kind, a scholarly man who could be lamented but not really missed. She told people he was Scottish but had an American mother, to deter any questions about his family.

  But the duke didn’t need to know any of that. “The vicar doesn’t quiz you on your reasons for marriage,” she said lightly. “As long as the banns have been called properly, he reads the ceremony.”

  “You must have been very young.”

  Sophie’s smile grew fixed. “Young but not naive.”

  “I presume it was a love match.” Even in the lamp light, his eyes were so very blue and vivid. “Since your parents had such a blissful union.”

  She turned away. “I told you before—­that sort of marriage is rare.” Rare, and not without cost. Her Grand Plan was to find a sensible, kind man of sufficient income. Someone she could be fond of, but not someone she fell in love with. Someone very like her imaginary Mr. Campbell, as it happened. As much as Sophie longed for the devotion and adoration her parents had shared, she wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to follow her passion as they had done. Could she give up everything for a man, even a man who loved her? Could she resign herself to scraping for money to pay the butcher, the landlord, the doctor? Her parents had loved each other deeply, but it had cost them—­and in the end, it had cost Sophie, as well.

  “What is in these trunks?” she asked to divert him. “There are so many.”

  The duke’s gaze lingered on her; he knew she had dodged his question, and for some reason he seemed disappointed. He cared to know her answer. “Clothing, most likely.” He pulled out the trunk with the elaborate engraved W on the end and undid the latches.

  Inside lay a cloud of silver paper, then layers of soft linen. Gently Sophie lifted the wrappings aside and gasped at the gown that lay below. It was cloth of gold, lavishly embroidered with pearls and dripping with lace. “May I?” She glanced at the duke in question, and he nodded. Carefully she lifted it up, speechless at the exquisite work. It still sparkled and shone, some six decades after it would have been fashionable. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Stunningly beautiful!”

  She wanted to take the gown out of the trunk and hold it in the sun. She yearned for a mirror to hold it in front of herself and imagine, for one brief moment, that it was hers. She glanced at the duke from beneath her eyelashes; he had propped one elbow on the topmost trunk and stood watching her, relaxed but attentive. Perhaps what she really wanted was to pretend that in a gown like this, she’d be a worth a duke’s attention . . .

  “Perhaps there are some benefits to marrying for wealth and position,” murmured the duke wryly.

  She flashed a reproachful glance at him. “I never said there were none.” She just didn’t think they were worth the risk. Reverently she laid the dress back in its wrappings, tucking the coverings securely around it. “It’s a treasure chest,” she said as she closed the lid.

  “That looks like her court presentation gown. There’s a portrait of her wearing it at Kirkwood Hall in Somerset.”

  Another repository of family history. “She must have looked like the bride of Apollo.”

  “Surely you jest. Apollo would be a mundane husband for a Duchess of Ware,” he said with a straight face. Sophie blinked, then burst out laughing. The duke did, too, his face easing into an expression of warm familiarity. He pushed the trunk back into place. “Do you wish to open more?”

  Part of her did, to see what other treasures were hidden up here, but she tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear and made a face as her fingers came away sticky with cobwebs. “Unless one of the trunks contains a ghost, ready to rise from her rest and rattle chains for our entertainment, I suppose not. Surely we’ve dislodged enough dust for one day.” She brushed at her skirt, belatedly realizing a disadvantage to exploring the attics. She was a mess.

  “Alas, another thing Alwyn cannot supply—­ghosts,” he said in mock chagrin. “Or if there are any about, they must be very quiet ones.” He cocked his head. “I never suspected women could be so ghoulish.”

  “Well.” She waved one hand. “Discovering beautiful clothing is even better than finding a ghost.”

  He grinned and looked around. “I suspect there’s enough packed away here to clothe the entire court of St. James.”

  She thought of her own modest wardrobe in London—­now reduced by one bright crimson dress. Mrs. Gibbon had brought it back this morning, stained to the knee, saying there was nothing more they could do for it. The green dress So
phie wore today was another cast-­off from one of the maids, she suspected, and now it was covered in grime. Alwyn House had more clothes, of higher quality, than she did.

  “If it’s all as fine as that gown, I consider it a crime to leave it packed away,” she said. “Are your grandfather’s ermine-­trimmed robes here, as well?”

  The duke did not reply. There was a very odd look on his face as he studied her. He reached out and drew his fingers across her cheek, lingering for a moment. Sophie couldn’t move; she could hardly breathe. The touch of his fingers on her skin, stroking, the way a man might do to a woman he loved, had ignited that terrible feeling again—­the strange pull she felt toward him, and the wholly unwanted longing for him to plunge his hands into her hair and pull her against him and ravish her against these old trunks . . .

  He took his hand away and flicked his fingers. “Cobwebs,” he said, his voice deep and rough.

  Her face burned. She was suffering pangs of desire and he was noticing how filthy she was. Mad, mad, mad, she scolded herself. “The perils of exploring!” She swiped roughly at her dress with both hands. “I should wash . . .”

  The duke made a noise, low in his throat. “You’re a very unusual woman, Mrs. Campbell.”

  More than you know, Sophie thought uneasily. She summoned a carefree smile. “I choose to accept that as a compliment, Your Grace.”

  He dragged his eyes up to hers, and she went hot all over at the realization he’d been watching her try to brush the dust from her bodice. “Good,” he said in the charged silence. “I meant it as one.” And with that he picked up the lamp and headed for the door, leaving her to follow with a pounding heart.

  Chapter 11

  “I don’t know about you,” Mrs. Campbell announced on the third morning, “but I shall run absolutely mad if I don’t get out of this house.”

  Jack raised one brow. “Into the rain?”

  She looked at the windows. “It’s more of a light mist today. In Russia they would account it a fine day, nothing to keep one indoors.”

  “When were you in Russia?” he asked with interest.

  Instead of answering, she pushed back her chair and rose. “I think a simple walk in the garden to start and then perhaps to the lake. You did say there is a path. Will you join me, or shall you spend the day lolling on a sofa in the library?”

  Jack pushed back his chair as well. “I have not lolled anywhere in years, madam.”

  Her smile was triumphant. “Then let’s ask Wilson to find some umbrellas.”

  She was right about the rain; it barely made a sound against the ground as they stepped out under the portico. Mrs. Campbell drew a deep breath—­of relief, he realized—­and exclaimed, “How beautiful it is!”

  Jack pulled his greatcoat collar closer around his neck and squinted at the sky. It was lighter today, a pale pearl color instead of the sullen pewter it had been. Perhaps that was a sign the rain was ending.

  Wilson appeared with two umbrellas, but Jack took only one. He gave the butler a look, and the man promptly bowed and went back into the house, still holding the second umbrella. Mrs. Campbell, gazing at the wet garden, had her back to the door and missed the exchange. Jack opened his umbrella and stepped forward. “Shall we?” He offered his arm.

  She looked at him, then at his arm. Her face stilled for a moment before she curled her hand around his elbow. It was the lightest of touches, but Jack felt it echo through every nerve in his body. He raised the umbrella overhead, and they walked out together.

  “Who planned the gardens?” she asked as they passed the roses, the petaled heads drooping heavily in the mist.

  “My great-­grandmother, originally. I confess I don’t know much about the gardens. Mrs. Gibbon could no doubt recite an entire history.”

  “Has she been here long?”

  He nodded. “Thirty years or more—­as long as I can remember, at any rate.”

  “How loyal,” she murmured.

  “Not everyone finds my family appalling.”

  She gave a gasp of indignation. “I never said that.”

  “You called my great-­grandfather beastly. You remarked with disapproval on my grandparents’ arranged marriage. You said my brother would make a wretched husband, and you called me terribly vexing and accused me of kidnapping.” Somehow the recitation of charges made him want to smile. Perhaps it was the nonplussed expression on her face.

  “Yes,” she rallied to say, “one must only suppose you pay extraordinarily high wages, to have such loyal servants.”

  “So one would work for an ogre, if the wages were high enough?” he asked, affecting deep thought.

  “Well, if you can’t marry for money, you must work for it.” She tilted her head and gave him a saucy look. “Foreign as that thought might be to a duke.”

  “You’re entirely correct,” he said. “I work for no wages at all.”

  She stopped. “I didn’t mean—­” She pursed her lips, and Jack found himself openly staring. He even found himself thinking how easily he could lean over and kiss her, here in the garden while the rain came down and she stood there looking so beautifully contrite with her mouth perfectly shaped for a kiss. “Philip says you work a great deal.”

  Mention of his brother doused Jack’s contemplation of kissing her. He looked away from her ripe pink mouth. “Yes. Alas, Philip has yet to express any interest in seeing that the servants’ wages are paid, or the rents are collected, or any of the other dull things I do.”

  “I didn’t—­” She stopped. “I didn’t intend any slight,” she said in a softer tone. “Quite the contrary! Philip is an irresponsible scoundrel, which makes for an amusing companion but not for an admirable man. I only meant . . .” Again she turned, taking in the house, the gardens, the rain-­dewed lawns. “Working for servants’ wages is a world apart from this. When one worries about having money for food and shelter and medicine, then . . . yes—­one would work for an ogre, if he paid extraordinary wages.”

  The spark of irritation had faded as she spoke. Jack realized something: she had been poor. What’s more, she had worked for wages. She had worried about the cost of food and shelter.

  It was not difficult to put together a history wherein her parents died and left her, still only a child, with very little. Her disapproving grandfather—­the Ogre, she’d called him—­hadn’t done well by her, and it seemed her husband hadn’t, either. It was odd how she never spoke of him. But it formed a picture of a woman trying to forge her own way in the world by necessity. And gambling, he must admit, was more respectable than some ways she could have earned her keep, particularly when she did it so artfully.

  “I try not to be an ogre,” he said at last. “Not all the time, at any rate. You must ask Mrs. Gibbon if I ever succeed.”

  A smile broke out on her face, pure shining relief. “I have no doubt she’ll browbeat me for even implying you might be! The evening we arrived, she assured me with great confidence that I’d been entirely safe with you, walking a mile in the storm.”

  Safe was hardly what Jack felt right now. He was deep in lust with his unexpected guest, and remembering that he was a gentleman was becoming increasingly difficult. If he spent much longer strolling in the garden with her like this, her hand on his arm and her mouth so temptingly near, he might go mad and do something idiotic like kiss her. But she wanted out of the house, and the carriage axle was still being repaired.

  Then it came to him. “Do you ride?”

  Her brows went up. “Yes. But I haven’t a habit.”

  Jack noted she was wearing the housemaid’s dress again, the one with the low neckline, and nodded once. “I think we can solve that.”

  It took Mrs. Gibbon quite some time to unearth an old riding habit from the trunks in the attics, but she did it. Jack took himself off to the stables while Mrs. Campbell changed. The days when Alwyn had housed a d
ozen or more fine horses were in the past, but he still kept a few mounts here.

  He was conferring with the groom about where best to ride in the rain when a figure appeared in the doorway. He glanced up and forgot what he’d been saying as Mrs. Campbell hurried inside, brushing drops of mist from her sleeve.

  The habit was old-­fashioned but fit her perfectly. It was a vivid emerald green, with gold braid on the jacket and a small puff of lace at the collar. The fitted jacket emphasized the curves of her bosom and waist, and the long full skirt swayed appealingly around her hips. She folded her gloved hands and looked up from under the wide-­brimmed round hat she wore, to meet Jack’s eyes.

  “Will it do?” she asked lightly, striking a pose as if her portrait were being painted. “Or shall your grandmother come back from the grave to punish me for my presumption?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “If she would punish anyone, it would be me.” But it would be worth it. He thought of all the other fine items of clothing that must be up there, and it made his throat close up. Sophie Campbell was a vision in servant’s clothing. In a golden court presentation gown, with diamonds in her hair and around her throat, no one would guess she wasn’t a duchess herself . . .

  Breathing harder than he should have been, he turned back to Owens, the groom, and tried to focus on anything other than his intriguing guest.

  “The high meadow,” supplied Owens, a taciturn old fellow. “Drains well, level ground.”

  “Yes. Splendid. Put Mrs. Campbell on Minerva,” he said, naming a mare with a mellow temper and a smooth gait. He’d already had them saddle a horse for him. His favorite was still in London, but Maximillian was a good horse, an older gelding who wouldn’t mind the rain.

  He stayed away while they saddled Minerva and brought her into the wide center aisle of the stable. There was a mounting block there, and Owens was leading Minerva to it, anticipating helping Mrs. Campbell into the saddle. Jack watched her walk toward it, the full skirt caught up in one arm. She looked like she knew what she was about, and probably didn’t need his help, and yet his feet started moving on their own.