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

by Caroline Linden

  “Let me,” he said, intercepting her before she reached the block. “Minerva doesn’t like the block.”

  Owens gave him a queer look at the lie—­Minerva was well trained to stand by the block—­but obediently he stopped the horse. Jack laced his fingers together and stooped slightly. With only a brief hesitation, Mrs. Campbell put her foot into his grip and rested her hands on his shoulders. Her skirts smelled slightly musty, but Jack inhaled deeply and gave her a boost. She landed easily in the saddle, but he stood near as she hooked her knee over the pommel and adjusted her skirts. Minerva shifted, and for a brief sizzling moment, Mrs. Campbell’s leg pressed against his chest. He could feel her knee, right at his shoulder, and without warning his brain imagined her knees rising beside his waist as he moved above her, tasting every inch of her luscious skin, driving hard and fast into her . . .

  God save him.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, interrupting his increasingly carnal thoughts. He jerked his head in a nod and swung onto Maximillian’s back, discreetly adjusting his breeches once safely in the saddle.

  They rode through the stable yard, then turned up the lane that led toward the woods. “The high meadow is beyond the woods,” he told her, keeping Maximillian beside Minerva. “Owens says it’s fairly firm and should offer a good ride.”

  “Brilliant.” She was riding well but very carefully, he noticed, as if she’d not been on a horse in a while.

  “Still, we can’t be foolish. It’s wet and I won’t risk Minerva’s legs.”

  “Of course not.” She patted the horse’s neck. “I don’t wish to humiliate myself by racing madly across the fields and ending on my backside in the mud.”

  She smiled and Jack laughed, although his stomach had contracted at the thought of her backside, muddy or otherwise. “An easy ride, then,” he said, and urged Maximillian into a trot. When he glanced back, she was keeping pace. Her face was alive with joy beneath the brim of her hat.

  They rode through the woods, along paths that wove through the trees and avoided any large puddles. When they emerged from the trees and reached the high meadow, Jack realized the rain had actually stopped.

  “Goodness,” said Mrs. Campbell breathlessly beside him. She pulled Minerva to a stop and gazed openmouthed at the meadow. “Look . . .”

  Barley visible, a rainbow shimmered across the far end of the meadow. Jack raised one brow in question at her, and with an eager smile she nodded. They took off, skimming across the field at a canter. The air felt soft and full, and he realized how right she had been to want out of the house. He couldn’t regret the day spent in the attics, but this felt immeasurably more alive.

  They reached the opposite side of the meadow and slowed back to a walk. “Oh my,” cried Mrs. Campbell. She gave a very unladylike whoop. “That was brilliant!”

  Her hat had blown off, and tendrils of mahogany hair blew about her face. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed, and he thought he’d never seen anyone look so unabashedly happy. It made him laugh, and a thrill went through him that he’d been responsible. “At last! Something you can savor about Alwyn House.”

  She flicked her crop toward him in jest, but her smile was wide and infectious. Even brighter and more joyful than the one she’d given Philip. “It’s a wonderful place because of Minerva. Minnie, darling, you were magnificent!” She leaned low across the horse’s neck to scratch between her ears.

  Jack turned and looked back; her hat lay forgotten in the trampled grass, a small gray spot in the green meadow. “Minerva follows wherever Maximillian leads. She’s quite besotted with him.”

  “Oh?”

  “See how she follows him. Leave your reins slack,” he directed, and nudged his horse back toward the hat.

  “Unfair!” she cried as Minerva promptly followed.

  He grinned. “Because she chooses to follow her heart?”

  She rolled her eyes as he teased her with her own words. “Because all this time I’ve been feeling rather proud of myself for remembering how to ride, when she was merely following you.”

  “How long has it been since you rode?” They had reached the hat. Jack swung down to the ground and scooped it up. It looked a little damp but otherwise unscathed.

  “Oh, years. Keeping a horse costs far more than hiring a hackney.”

  Maximillian was snuffling at Minerva in friendly fashion. Jack had chosen this pair because of how well they got on together. “See?” he said, nodding at them. “True love.”

  “I shall allow that to stand unchallenged, as it proves my greater point—­true love is rare, but powerful.” She put out her hand for the hat.

  “How do you know it’s rare?” He held on to the hat. He rather liked the way locks of hair had fallen loose around her face. It gave her a beautifully disheveled air, intimate and arresting. Of course, damn near everything about her was arresting his attention lately, making him crave ever more intimacy.

  She wiggled her fingers in appeal. “How many marriages can you name based on true love?”

  “Several,” he countered, stubbornly holding the hat.

  Her brows arched. “But none in your family.”

  Jack sighed and relinquished the hat. “By their choice.”

  She took her time resettling the hat on her head, tucking away all those teasing wisps of hair. “I suppose that divides us, Your Grace,” she said at last, gathering her reins again. “I think it is rare, and I would not put duty or social advantage above it. Shall we ride on?” She nudged Minerva forward, leaving him standing in the field and wondering why he’d asked that question. Her opinions on love should not matter to him.

  They rode for a while, tearing across the meadow several more times. It occurred to Jack that she hadn’t asked an obvious question: why couldn’t they ride back to London? The meadow wasn’t as rutted or flooded as the road, but it was remarkably solid, and with care it certainly seemed they could navigate the roads. Given the fresh newspapers lying on the breakfast table every morning, Jack expected Owens had been riding Maximillian to the nearest posting inn with regularity.

  But she never asked, and he began to suspect she was enjoying herself. That suited him perfectly, because he was beginning to think a week was far too short a time to spend with her.

  The skies were noticeably brighter by the time they returned to the stables, spattered with mud. Owens took the horses, and Jack offered her his arm as they started toward the house. She took it very naturally.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For taking me riding.”

  “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Campbell.” He was surprised by how true that was. By how much he had enjoyed every day with her, in fact.

  “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve spent so much time exclusively with any one person since my parents died,” she remarked.

  Jack thought of Percy, his secretary, who sat in his study for hours each day as they worked. Percy couldn’t count. “It’s unusual for me, as well.”

  “One might also suppose we’ve come to be friends,” she said lightly.

  Aside from the fact that he harbored some feelings toward her that one never applied to mere friends, Jack heartily agreed. “One might.”

  She glanced sideways at him, as if she’d heard his unspoken caveat. “I don’t expect it will last once we leave. But perhaps . . . just for now . . . you might call me Sophie.” Jack stopped dead. She smiled and waved one hand airily. “I’ve grown tired of hearing ‘Mrs. Campbell,’ is all. If you find it objectionable, by all means—­”

  “No.” He put his hand over hers on his arm. “You mistake me . . . Sophie.”

  Her smile turned brighter, almost too bright. “Very good . . . Ware.”

  Jack knew that calling her by name breached some barrier from which there would be no going back. Friends, she said; it won’t last once we leave. That sounded like the first
step on the road of temptation. Every inch of familiarity would lead to another, and another, and another, because he couldn’t see an end to his fascination with her, and damn but he wanted to race through all those inches of familiarity. He knew he was playing with fire, but instead of trying to quench the embers, he squeezed his hand around hers and smiled into her bright sherry eyes.

  He’d worry about the danger later.

  Chapter 12

  Sophie apologized profusely to Mrs. Gibbon for the state of the riding habit after she changed, but the housekeeper waved it off.

  “His Grace wanted you to wear it, and what good was it doing anyone in a trunk?” She collected the damp, mud-­spattered habit and headed for the door. “I’m to tell you dinner will be ready shortly, and you may go down when you wish.”

  “Oh,” she said in surprise, but the housekeeper was gone, leaving her alone in the room. She stepped in front of the tall cheval mirror to make certain she was as neat as could be in the housemaid’s cast-­off dress. For a moment she thought of the fine gowns that must be lying in wrappings just above her head. If she could borrow a riding habit, perhaps she could borrow another dress . . .

  No. She firmly put that thought from her head. Those were not her clothes, they were the duke’s. Just because he allowed her to borrow a riding habit didn’t mean he wanted to see her in one of those fine gowns upstairs. And as for herself . . . She was five kinds of fool for wanting to look attractive tonight, when she was already suffering from an overwhelming temptation to flirt with Ware.

  She drew herself up in front of the mirror. “Remember yourself,” she said sternly to her reflection. She was not a duchess, and she didn’t deserve to wear their clothes any more than she ought to consider letting the duke seduce her. It was a good thing the rain had stopped and she would be returning to London soon, where she would go back to her ordinary life and Ware would resume his very elegant one. She gave her skirt one more tug to smooth a wrinkle, then turned and went down to dinner.

  They dined, as they had every night, in the breakfast room. It had a different feel by candlelight, and tonight it felt even more intimate. The names, she decided; he called her Sophie, as she had impulsively invited him to do. And she called him Ware, marveling every time that she was on friendly terms with a duke.

  After dinner they wandered through the house idly. Ware showed her a few more of his drawings, tucked away in odd corners of the gallery. He was so charmingly modest about them, calling them his scribblings when she thought they were quite good. There was one of a horse—­“the best jumper in all of Britain,” he said—­and one of Kirkwood Hall, his main estate in Somerset. It looked like a palace from the time of the Tudors, and was every bit as intimidating as she had expected a duke’s home would be. Now at last she saw why he called Alwyn his favorite of all his houses; the rest of his houses were actual castles.

  But she could listen to him talk about it forever. There was something different about his voice now. At first it had been cool and remote, as elegant and aristocratic as could be. Over the last two days, he had become warmer, more animated. He laughed at her teasing instead of giving her a stern look. At first she’d thought he was affronted—­as she had intended—­but now she thought it was because he wasn’t arrogant and dull, and he didn’t like her thinking him so. Every now and then she caught him giving her a roguish glance. What had he been like as a young man? she wondered. And what might have happened had she met him then?

  Eventually they ended up in the library. By now it was also Sophie’s favorite room in the house. She sank gratefully onto the sofa, lounging inelegantly on the silk upholstery. “That was a glorious day,” she announced. “You must watch carefully, or I shall be tempted to steal Minnie from your stables.”

  He had followed more slowly, but now came around the sofa and took the chair. “She would run back the first time you took her out, to rejoin Maximillian.”

  Sophie laughed. “Ah yes, her true love.”

  “I understand one should not interfere with it in any way.” He set down two glasses and wrapped a towel around the top of the bottle he held.

  Sophie sat up, eyes on the bottle. “Is that champagne?”

  “Indeed.” He uncorked it, filled the two glasses, and handed her one. The bubbles fizzing gently against the crystal. “Wilson says the roads are drying well. The carriage is repaired. If the sun is out tomorrow, we can return to London.”

  “Oh!” She took a sip, then another. “That’s lovely,” she whispered.

  He looked amused. “Have you never had it?”

  “Oh no.” She drank some more, reveling in the cool crisp wine. “Far too elegant for my usual haunts.”

  “Then we shall have two bottles.” He leaned back in his chair. “In celebration of the repaired carriage.”

  And their impending return to London. Sophie raised her glass in salute and drank some more, reminding herself that it was what she’d been demanding for three days. Now that the moment was at hand, she felt none of the relief she had anticipated. Back in London, there would be no more playing cards with the duke, or riding in the rain, or exploring dusty attics. She would go back to the gambling tables, carefully squirreling away shillings and pounds either as a fortune to help her get a husband, or to purchase an annuity to sustain her into old age. She would have tea every fortnight with her friends, listening to Georgiana wax euphoric about Lord Sterling’s charm and to Eliza fret about her father’s determination that her enormous dowry must attract a noble husband.

  Her lips curved at the thought of her friends. How it would amaze them if they knew she was here with a duke, reclining on a sofa in his country mansion and drinking champagne with him.

  But her smile faded. She could hardly tell them about this—­indeed, if gossip had spread despite Mr. Dashwood’s rule to the contrary, she might not be permitted to see her friends again. Mr. Cross was indulgent and fond of her, but even he would draw the line if he feared Sophie’s reputation would tarnish Eliza’s. And Georgiana’s chaperone had only agreed to their regular teas with reluctance in the first place. One whiff of scandal about Sophie’s name and Lady Sidlow would be furious.

  No, back in London her life would not be completely the same.

  She turned her head to study Ware. He was watching her, and when their eyes connected, a little shock raced through her. All his aloof reserve had vanished; she had thought him implacable and stern, but now it seemed like that had been another man. He sprawled as easily in the chair as she lay on the sofa, his chin propped in one hand and the glass of champagne dangling from the fingertips of his other hand.

  “It will be strange to go back to London after this,” she said.

  “Very,” he agreed.

  “No doubt in a few days’ time it will all seem like a dream. A holiday from the world and its cares.”

  He made a soft noise of agreement. Sophie finished her glass of champagne, and he leaned forward to refill it. “Are you still eager to return?”

  She settled more comfortably on the sofa. Her answer at the moment was a resounding no. This moment, right now, was almost perfect. But this moment could not last, and the fact that she wanted it to last meant it was past time to go home. “Of course,” she said. “One does what one must.”

  “Hmm.” He slouched deeper into his chair. “You stopped demanding I take you back at once.”

  “I’m not a fool,” she said pertly. “With a broken carriage axle and never-­ending rain, I acknowledge that returning at once was beyond even the Duke of Ware.”

  He smiled. “Yet now the happy moment is approaching, and you aren’t dancing with joy.”

  No. Not only was she less than eager to face the consequences, she was finally admitting to herself that she had enjoyed these few days.

  With him. Because of him.

  “You said you didn’t expect to win that wager,” she said
softly, staring up at the ceiling. It was covered with elaborate scrollwork in gold, with a frieze of mythological beings cavorting around the edges. The chandelier of cut crystal glittered in the lamplight. That ceiling was probably worth more than her entire house. “Why did you propose it?”

  He pushed himself upright in his chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked down at her. His golden hair was rumpled into waves that made her long to smooth them. “Haven’t you guessed?”

  She angled her face toward him. “Tell me. I’m no good at guessing.”

  He let out his breath, his eyes shadowed, and then he bent and kissed her. His mouth was soft, a gentle hint of a kiss rather than a real one. Her eyes drifted closed as his lips whispered over hers, and she moved toward him like a flower seeking the sun. His fingertips touched her jaw, angling her face with the slightest perceptible pressure. A soft sound of pleasure hummed in her throat.

  The duke lifted his head. For a moment they stared at each other. “Is that all?” Sophie whispered, belatedly realizing how her heart was thudding. “All you want?”

  “No.” He traced one finger, as lightly as a feather, down her throat. A shiver rippled over her skin, and her nipples hardened as his gaze swept over her. “Not by a tenth.”

  She was in no condition to face this decision. Alone with him for three full days, exposed to his dry humor and surprising humanity and unbearable attractiveness, she was virtually defenseless when his gaze connected with hers again, this time hot with hunger. She should think of her reputation, already perilously uncertain after that wager; she should think of Philip, who would view it as a betrayal by both of them. She should think of Giles Carter, who was her best chance for a respectable marriage. She should think of herself, and how she would feel if she succumbed to this strangely potent desire for a man who would never fall in love with her.

  But when she opened her mouth—­“Show me,” she whispered. “Please.”