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

by Caroline Linden

  The tension went out of her. Her smile grew radiant, and she gazed at him with open adoration. “Thank you. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  God. It hadn’t even been a week, and it felt like a decade. He touched her chin, then tipped her face up to him. “It’s the least I can offer.” And he kissed her, cupping his hands around her face when her mouth softened under his.

  She went up on her toes, clinging to his arms, and kissed him back. Something in his soul stirred possessively. He had not got over her at all. Perhaps he never would.

  “I’ve missed you,” he breathed in her ear, brushing his lips over the pulse throbbing faintly at her temple.

  “And I you,” she said on a sigh. “Oh, Jack . . .” Her arms went around his neck, and she threaded her fingers into his hair.

  Jack gathered her to him. The feel of her body, the scent of her skin went straight to his head, like the most potent whisky drunk too quickly. But no—­that wasn’t right. This wasn’t a passing condition that would be cured when he woke up in the morning. He’d been waiting five long days for that to happen, and when it hadn’t, he burned for an excuse, any at all, to see her again. Not even Philip’s appalling behavior could make him sorry that she was here.

  He reclaimed her mouth, coaxing her to open to him. She moaned, and he urged her back a step, then another, until they reached the desk. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her, heedless of the papers being disarranged. His stomach flexed in eagerness and anticipation as her knees rose beside his hips. Five endless days . . .

  Jack caught her knee, hiking it up to his waist so he could move fully between her thighs. Sophie arched her back, and her fingers dug into his nape, urging him on. Still kissing her deeply, he flicked open the top button of her prim dress, then another, then another, until he felt the top edge of her corset under his fingertips.

  This was madness. They had said their farewells, knowing it was madness, and still he wanted her, more than ever, more than he cared for the dignity of his father’s house, the obligation of his title, the fact that the door was unlocked. He needed her. Jack ignored every argument against it and bent his head to press his lips to the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat. She whispered his name again, clutching his head to her with one hand and bracing herself with the other hand.

  The tap at the door sounded like a clap of thunder. Sophie gave a violent start, almost toppling over, and seized his shoulders to catch herself. “Stop,” she gasped. “We can’t—­I have to go.”

  Jack held her a moment longer, resenting the interruption, but another knock sounded. He felt the weight of duty drop heavily back onto his shoulders, and he pushed himself away from the desk. Sophie slid off, frantically buttoning her dress. Her face was flushed with desire, and her mouth still looked soft and inviting, and he had to step back and turn away to master himself and put down the urge to bolt the door and make love to her on the sofa, on the desk, on the damn floor if necessary.

  “I will see to Philip,” he said, breathing hard. His body ached with frustration. “He shan’t bother you again.”

  “Thank you.” Her buttons done, she retrieved her bonnet. With jerky motions she tied the ribbons. Before she flipped the veil over her head, she glanced at him, filled with longing and regret. “I wish I hadn’t had to trouble you—­”

  “You must not apologize for coming to me.” He managed a tight smile. “Never.”

  “I won’t,” she murmured. She pulled the veil down, and her hands shook. Even that sent a charge through him; if he had bolted the door and carried her to the sofa, she would have welcomed it.

  He walked ahead of her to the door, opening it to see his butler waiting. “Yes?” he snapped.

  “Her Grace your mother requires an urgent word with you, sir,” said Browne, his face impassive.

  Jack’s jaw tightened. Browne never would have disturbed him on his own; he was an excellent butler. That meant his mother had forced him to do it, to knock not once but twice on his study door. Of course, his mother could only have known about his visitor if Browne had told her, which made the butler complicit. “I will see her later,” he said coldly, and turned his back in dismissal. “Come, madam,” he said to Sophie, hovering uncertainly. “Let me escort you out.” He offered his arm and walked her through the house.

  Neither said a word. The last time they parted, they had both thought it was forever. He’d watched her go that time with despair. But this time . . .

  When they reached the door, she dropped a quick curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured, and then she was gone, hurrying without a backward glance out the door held open by the footman.

  Jack watched her go. Seeing her again had torn off the veneer of resignation and obligation. He had acted to save Philip, both by whisking Sophie away and then again when he gave her up.

  But his brother couldn’t leave anything be, nor heed any warning. After all Jack had done to fulfill what was expected of him, he was damned if he wouldn’t do something for himself now. He turned to the servant. “Send for my horse.”

  He was shown in almost at once, despite the early hour and the fact that the club was not open to guests. Dashwood was hurriedly shrugging into his jacket when the manager opened the door. Jack strode in. “I understand my brother has been at your tables again,” he said without preamble.

  Dashwood paused, then gave his jacket one last jerk into place. “I don’t discuss my members’ habits.”

  Jack leveled a stony look at him. “It was not a question.”

  “He is still a member,” said Dashwood in oblique acknowledgment.

  “He is still wagering and losing vast sums of money at your establishment—­money he does not have, and will not receive from me.” Jack tilted his head. He’d thought very carefully about how to approach Vega’s owner. “I believe your rule is ‘pay your debts.’ ”

  “It is.”

  “I am warning you that my brother will soon be unable to pay any debts. Cut him off. Revoke his membership.”

  A humorless smile crossed Dashwood’s face. “Then he’ll have to deal with the consequences, as a gentleman.”

  He hadn’t expected Dashwood would agree to that, but it had to be attempted. “Then admit me to your club.”

  The other man blinked, his only sign of surprise. “There is a procedure, Your Grace . . .”

  “Which you can circumvent at will, I have no doubt—­as the owner.”

  Slowly Dashwood nodded, obviously doing some rapid thinking. His face seemed to grow hard and cold for a moment, and Jack had the feeling he was seeing the real Dashwood, not the debonair club owner who mingled with his wealthy patrons. He was counting on that man to see the benefit of admitting the Duke of Ware.

  “If you will not cut off my brother from your tables, he risks ruin,” Jack went on. “I cannot stop him from degrading his own name and prospects, but I will not stand by and see him become a stain on my name. Admit me to your club, so that I can keep an eye on his activities and intervene as necessary to prevent him losing what he cannot pay to your other patrons.”

  Dashwood didn’t bat an eye. “I could be persuaded to allow it—­on your own merits, of course. There is one matter, though, which gives me pause.”

  Jack had a good guess what the matter was. He propped one hand on his hip to hide how it had curled into a fist. “Oh?” he drawled.

  The club owner looked him in the eye. “Mrs. Campbell.”

  That was the one. Jack kept his face impassive. “Who?” he said in a tone of mild scorn.

  “The lady you gambled with—­very inappropriately—­the last time you were here, Your Grace.” Dashwood’s smile was thin but dangerous.

  Jack dismissed her with a flick of his fingers. He mustn’t give any sign that he even remembered who she was. “Ah. Her. I acted only to separate her from my brother, whom she appeared
intent upon fleecing.”

  “She is still a member of this club. I won’t have you harassing her or any other lady here.”

  Jack drew himself upright and glared at the man with all the ducal arrogance he possessed. “You forget yourself, Dashwood.”

  “That’s my condition,” replied Dashwood, relatively unperturbed. “I don’t want that kind of wagering in my club, not from you or anyone else. And you’ll keep your distance from Mrs. Campbell in particular.”

  “Obviously,” he said, the word like frost on his lips. If only Dashwood knew—­Jack was tolerating this insulting conversation solely for Sophie’s sake. He’d let Philip twist in the wind, if his brother would show some basic honor and leave her alone. “Then we are agreed.” He picked up his hat and turned to go. “I shall attend this evening.”

  “I’ll see that Forbes has your name.”

  Jack gave a nod and left. Not until he swung into the saddle and headed home did he allow himself to think about the very much intended consequence of this maneuver. He had got himself admitted to Vega’s, where he would be able to keep an eye on Philip and prevent him from harassing Sophie. And to do that . . .

  He would get to see her, as well.

  Chapter 17

  Sophie walked through the doors of Vega’s two nights later with some trepidation. She was not hopeful that Jack would have persuaded Philip to leave her in peace. Every time she went, he’d been there, as if waiting for her, watching everything she did.

  It was both alarming and puzzling. Surely he couldn’t have felt such an attachment to her based only on their convivial habit of gambling together. As Jack had pointed out, she won more from Philip than he won from her. He himself had been the cause of the scene that led to Jack’s outrageous wager. If anything, he ought to have apologized to her when next they met.

  Instead he was suspicious and possessive in a way he had never been before. It all made her believe that his anger was more at Jack than at her. Sophie had never had a sibling, and a small piece of her heart ached that the two brothers seemed permanently at odds now, after a close youth. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say any of that to Philip without belying her claim to have been ill in bed instead of off in Chiswick making love with his brother, and since that prospect was what had enraged him so . . . She was helpless.

  Tonight she headed for the whist tables. Hazard had lost all appeal, and faro was nearly as bad. Whist was quieter, and somehow more peaceful—­she had to keep her mind focused on the cards to play well, which prevented her thinking about Jack, and how he had crossed the room in two strides to take her in his arms and kiss her, and how she would have begged him to make love to her one last time there on the desk if someone hadn’t knocked on the door and startled her out of the haze of desire. She’d thought, after a few days apart, that her attraction to him would have lessened, or at least been manageable. Instead, it flared hotter than ever the instant she set eyes on him.

  “Mrs. Campbell!”

  She gave a violent start at the exclamation. “My goodness,” she gasped, clapping one hand to her breast. “You startled me, sir.”

  Fergus Fraser grinned. He was charming enough, though terribly shallow. His grandfather was a Scottish lord, and Mr. Fraser had been living on that connection as long as Sophie had known him. She suspected his purpose at Vega’s was similar to her own—­to win a fortune, or at least a decent income. “ ’Twas not my intent. I only came to deliver a message from a mutual friend.”

  She tensed. They had several acquaintances in common, but chief among them was Philip Lindeville. “Oh?”

  He handed over a folded note with a flourish. “I’m to bid you to read it privately, and if you wish to send a reply, I shall be pleased to deliver it.”

  It was Philip’s handwriting on the front, spelling out her name in swooping letters. She tapped it against her palm and gave Mr. Fraser a smile of dismissal. “Thank you, sir. That is very kind of you.”

  With a lazily elegant bow, he excused himself and wandered away. Sophie watched where he headed from beneath her eyelashes. The vingt-­un room, one of Philip’s favorites. Stepping closer to the wall, she broke the seal on the note and read it.

  It might have been from a different Philip. I have been a fool, he wrote. Through trying too hard to be your friend I have lost your favor, and now feel lost without your company. Say you forgive me, dearest Sophie, and we shall be as we ever were—­for now. You must know I care for you, but I am prevented from even speaking to you by one who has neither of our interests at heart. No one shall ever keep my thoughts from dwelling on you. Ever your servant, P. Lindeville

  One who has neither of our interests at heart . . . Heart suddenly leaping, she edged closer to the vingt-­un doorway. It was relatively early still, but several tables were full. After a moment she picked out Philip, his dark gaze moody as he tossed aside a card and motioned for another. But behind him . . .

  Stood Jack.

  He wore his more forbidding ducal expression, his sensual mouth flat, but he was here. And Philip hadn’t dared approach her.

  Her heart swelled until she gave a little gasp. Jack hated gambling, despised Vega’s, and yet here he was. And it could only be for her. For a moment she couldn’t keep herself from gazing at him, wishing she could cross the room and thank him—­acknowledge him—­throw herself into his arms and see him smile down at her before he kissed her—­

  “I heard the Duke of Ware had applied to become a member, but I didn’t expect to see him here,” remarked Giles Carter beside her.

  Sophie hadn’t even heard him approach, and almost jumped out of her skin at his voice. It was a blessing in disguise, for it gave her a chance to cover her lovesick gazing at Jack. “Has he?”

  “Apparently it was granted on the spot.” Carter gave a humorless huff. “Privilege of a dukedom, I suppose.”

  She managed to smile wryly. “Then he’ll be here regularly?”

  “No doubt.” Mr. Carter turned probing eyes to her. “Does it distress you, or please you?”

  She froze in apprehension. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean you and he had a very public scene, which ended with him sweeping you into his carriage. And neither of you was seen for several days afterward.”

  “I was home,” she said carefully. “Ill in bed. I told you.”

  He nodded. “You did. And I believed you. But just now . . .”

  “What?” she asked sharply. “What are you suggesting, sir?”

  He held up one hand. “Only that his presence here again might be an unforeseen opportunity to you.”

  No. It was an unforeseen torment, a reminder of what she could never have. And no one must ever know that she even dreamed of it, let alone that once he had been hers. She forced her shoulders to relax. “An opportunity to humiliate myself again?” She shook her head. “I have learned that lesson the hard way, thank you.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Women are mysterious creatures to me,” he said at last. “I have three sisters and four nieces, and I never can guess what any of them are thinking. The slightest things become tragedies worthy of Shakespeare, whilst weighty matters are brushed aside as piffle. When I met you, I thought you were nothing like them. Sensible and intelligent, I thought to myself, a woman with whom a man can be at ease instead of constantly on guard.”

  She should be falling over herself to reassure him she was like that. She should be pleased to hear he had regarded her with such esteem, and doing everything possible to restore that esteem. After all, three weeks ago she’d put Giles Carter on top of her list of possible husbands. He was a gentleman, and she was a gentleman’s daughter with four thousand pounds. He didn’t know that last bit, but she’d been very careful to project an image of a woman with some money of her own. There was a very real possibility that Mr. Carter would marry her.

  Jack never would.
/>
  Sophie knew this; she’d known all along. Not only was it utterly unthinkable for a duke to marry a woman who gambled for her living, Jack himself had said and done nothing to suggest otherwise. He’d told her directly that dukes, especially Dukes of Ware, didn’t marry for affection. He might still want her—­and wicked woman that she was, Sophie felt an irrational burst of longing at the knowledge that he did—­but only as his lover. At best, as his mistress. She was every kind of fool to want him anyway, even without accounting for her goal of marrying a respectable gentleman who could give her the security and family she craved.

  With some effort she hardened her heart to her visceral reaction to the sight of Jack. The time for being foolish had ended the moment they drove through the gates of Alwyn House on the way back to London. “I fear you are about to say your feelings have changed on that,” she murmured.

  “I am no longer as certain as I once was,” Mr. Carter acknowledged. “Not because of the scene at the hazard table—­I was witness to it all, you remember, and I know the duke was provoking and rude. Any man would have drawn his cork, and I don’t know many who could have resisted his goading challenge. But since you’ve returned to Vega’s . . .” He paused. “You’re not quite the same,” was his final conclusion.

  It was stupid to lie. “No,” she agreed softly. “I suppose not.”

  He gave a lopsided smile. “Then the only question is how you’ve changed. It might give a woman ideas, gambling with a duke. It’s not so different from a young lady scheming to dance with one, I suppose. Who knows what might result, once a man’s attention is snared, and dukes—­even the Duke of Ware—­are men of flesh and blood like the rest of us.”

  Before she could stop herself, Sophie stole another glance into the vingt-­un room. Jack was speaking to another man, one shoulder elegantly propped against the wall. He smiled slightly at whatever his companion said, and glanced her way. For the briefest second their gazes connected, with the same lightning-­sharp jolt of awareness that she’d felt at Alwyn House. The world seemed to fall away for that second, leaving just the two of them, two complementary pieces of one whole. I’m in love with him, Sophie thought with blank surprise.