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

by Caroline Linden

  Her reputation mattered because she was trying to attract a respectable husband. If she became Jack’s mistress, that would no longer be an option. Even though she had already dismissed that idea, it swirled around her brain like a fog, obscuring all reason and logic. Perhaps her Grand Plan would never come to fruition; perhaps she would be happier as Jack’s mistress than as the wife of any amiable squire. Would she spend the rest of her days regretting it, if she gave up Jack in hopes of a respectable but passionless marriage?

  Sophie didn’t know. She had trusted her own instincts since she was twelve, but no longer felt sure of anything. Follow her heart and hope all turned out well? That begged the question of what “turning out well” would mean in this case. She’d spoken truly when she told Mr. Carter she had no expectation of snaring herself a duke. A duke would not marry a woman like her, a woman with a false name, an imaginary late husband, and a deeply ingrained sense of survival. Georgiana had moaned about her chaperone’s strictures on her behavior enough for Sophie to understand just how far on the fringe of respectability she was already. To boldly step off that edge by becoming a mistress, even Jack’s mistress . . .

  Could she risk it?

  Jack was not promising her anything more than an affair. Sophie made herself face that plainly. He—­like she herself—­wanted their affair to continue, but as it had at Alwyn House, a hidden private thing. Even as she admitted that it was too tempting to refuse—­like that wager—­she reminded herself she must savor it without expecting anything more.

  “Sophie,” Jack said softly. She blinked, realizing her thoughts had veered off course. “Whatever you’re contemplating, stop. You look so grim.”

  She spread her hands on his bare chest. Savor this. He was back in her arms, and she would drive herself mad if she dwelt on how and when it would end. “You don’t appear frightened off.”

  His grin flashed again. The lamp Colleen had left beside the bed lit his face with a warm glow and turned his hair to burnished brass. “On the contrary, my dear. It only makes me determined to make you forget whatever it is.”

  If only he could. She swirled her fingers over his bare chest, her somber thoughts fading as she refocused on having him near again. “It’s not the sort of thing I could forget.” She ran her hands up his arms to link her fingers behind his neck. “I was only scheming how I might maneuver to meet you outside Vega’s every night . . . how we might share a hack, or chance to walk the same way, and wind up here, like this, every night.”

  He laughed again, the low wicked laugh that made her toes curl. “I shall contrive to make it exactly as you say.” He flipped her onto her back and rolled atop her. “Beginning now.”

  He made love to her again, slowly this time, until her mind was blissfully blank. She drifted off to sleep, curled against his chest with her cheek over his heart and his arms around her, and only woke when he slid from the bed. She made a quiet sound of discontent as he separated his clothing from hers in the garments scattered on the floor and began dressing.

  “The hack will return soon.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t go,” she whispered without thinking.

  Jack’s head came up, and his fingers paused in the act of buttoning his shirt. His eyes met hers, and for one endless, charged moment he stared at her as if waiting for something, some word or expression that would keep him here. In that moment, the familiar calculations and consequences ran through her mind once more, and this time she wavered in her determination. Just as she drew breath to say the fateful word—­stay—­he looked away.

  “I must.” He reached for his neckcloth and looped it around his collar.

  The reckless fluttering in her chest stopped. She let out her breath silently, thinking that he had saved her from herself. “I know.”

  She stared up into the dark and listened to the quiet sounds of him dressing. The floor creaked faintly when he stepped back over to the bed. “When will I see you again?” He sat on the edge of the mattress and leaned down to kiss her, his hand falling on her bare breast for a lingering caress. “Give me a time and day, darling.”

  “Jack.” Sophie pushed herself up on the pillows to ward off the temptation to pull him back down with her one more time, the returning hack be damned. “I go to Vega’s most nights between eight and nine o’clock.”

  His blue eyes were fixed on her. “When do you leave?”

  “Usually not before three o’clock.” His fingers were playing along her ribs, and she shivered. “But that is quite late. I’ve been considering leaving sooner . . .”

  “One o’clock,” he whispered. “Leave at one. I’ll find my own way here.”

  “What if—­?” she began.

  “You don’t want me?” He smiled ruefully. “Don’t leave at one. Leave earlier or leave later, and I will know not to come.”

  “How will you know when I leave?”

  He touched one fingertip to her lips. “I pay attention—­especially to you. It’s not hard to watch someone else when you’re not watching any cards.”

  Sophie pursed her lips and kissed his finger. “You might consider playing a hand now and then. It’s a gaming club, and you’ll be thought odd if you never play at all.”

  He arched one brow, amused. “Will I be?”

  “I don’t mean you should wager heavily,” she added, “only that it will attract notice if you never wager at all.”

  “Thank you for the counsel. I shall consider it.” He kissed her again, first lightly, then deeper and harder until she sighed in pleasure.

  She had to get up to walk him out and bar the door for the night. Wearing only her dressing gown, she followed him down the narrow stairs into the tiny hall. There he took her into his arms and simply held her. She pressed her cheek to his chest, once more covered in perfectly tailored linen and wool, and felt her heart swell.

  “Good night, darling,” Jack whispered, his lips against her forehead. “Until tomorrow night.”

  “Good night, Jack.” She let him out, watching for a moment as he strode away, tall and far too elegant for her modest street. She closed the door and shot the bolt again.

  It was only an affair. It would last only a short while. But by God, she would try to savor every blissful moment of it.

  Chapter 19

  Jack met the waiting hackney in Tottenham Court Road, around the corner from Sophie’s house. Her little home was in a quiet street, and he didn’t want to attract any notice. It had been years since he’d been out in London so late. He leaned back against the thin, shabby seat, and a smile spread over his face at the memory of Sophie in her flower-­printed dressing gown, with nothing underneath. He much preferred her in his banyan. Perhaps he ought to send it to her . . .

  He stopped that thought. Of course he couldn’t do that. This liaison between them was to be a secret. Only an idiot could have missed the way her mood dimmed abruptly when he said he would accept any condition she set upon their affair. She didn’t want anyone to know about them because it would spoil her reputation; she still hoped to marry someone else. His mood dropped another notch at the thought of her in another man’s arms, a man she loved. And he would have to sit by and watch it happen.

  But he had promised to keep their relationship secret. It was becoming clear to him that Sophie kept many secrets.

  He muttered a heartfelt curse in the silence of the hackney. Gaining admission to Vega’s might prove to be the death of him. Philip had been furious to see him arrive, but two short sentences put his brother in his place. As much as Philip might chafe at his presence, Jack made it clear he wasn’t budging. Philip could avoid him by avoiding Vega’s.

  His brother’s eyes had narrowed, and he’d leaned closer. “You’re here because of her.”

  “Do you mean Mrs. Campbell?” Jack had coolly replied. “Yes. I’ve heard rumors you are making a spectacle of yourself chasing after her, an
d that must stop—­as must your losses. If you can’t keep yourself away, I shall do it for you.”

  His brother had glared and muttered, but in the end he hadn’t gone near Sophie. Jack had kept Philip in view all night, so he was certain of that much. And eventually, as hoped, he’d spied Sophie herself. The charge that went through him at the sight of her lasted only a moment, though, because there was a man with her. A man who stood familiarly close, who spoke to her and made her smile. A man who offered her his arm and escorted her away, out of Jack’s view, causing a tidal wave of black and bitter jealousy to rush over him.

  It took only a few subtle hints to elicit the man’s name: Giles Carter, a gentleman of respectable family and fortune. No one had an unkind thing to say about him; in fact, he was well-­regarded by the patrons of the Vega Club as honorable, sensible, and even somewhat witty. He had seen with his own eyes that the fellow wasn’t ugly or misshapen, and he made Sophie smile. Jack positively ached to punch him in the face. And even though she claimed Carter was merely a friend, that would change in the blink of an eye if she encouraged the man. Carter’s interest was patently obvious, even from across the room.

  Jack might ignore the marriage mart on his own behalf, but he knew perfectly well how it worked. A man like Carter was an eligible match, especially for a woman who seemed to have no family or connections and a reputation that balanced precariously on the edge of respectability. He knew Sophie had secrets; he told himself he had no right to demand them. For a brief affair at Alwyn House he could ignore that, but now . . . he wanted more, of everything about her. Her company, her time, her attention, her trust.

  How was he to persuade her to give him more?

  The carriage stopped near Ware House, and he stepped down and paid the driver. The wheels clattered loudly on the cobbles as the hack drove away through the quiet night, and he walked the rest of the way home.

  Even at this hour, a servant was waiting for him, ready to sweep open the door as he climbed the steps. Jack shed his coat and hat and sent the footman off to bed. For a moment he lingered in the silent hall. The house was as quiet as a tomb at this time of night. Restlessly he picked up the lamp and walked the corridors, finally turning into his study. He poured a glass of brandy but abandoned it after one sip. What was Sophie hiding?

  He’d already guessed she was gambling to build a fortune. It wasn’t above reproach, but neither was it criminal.

  He suspected she was on the hunt for a husband. As were so many other women in London.

  Nicholas Dashwood warned him off speaking to her. Yet she found him and invited him home with her, breaking her own decree that they mustn’t see each other.

  But there must be something lacking in his understanding. If she wanted a fortune, she had only to ask and he’d lavish her with luxury. She must know that; he’d offered to give her a house. Instead, she asked for his promise not to speak of their affair at Alwyn House nor even to see her again . . . only to take him back into her bed tonight. He was already mad for her, but this might drive him to Bedlam.

  Was this all a great scam? Had he fallen into the hands of a truly skilled schemer and swindler? A woman in need of money, casting out lures to men she gambled with, rejecting the men who didn’t have independent fortunes, making love to him and then declaring their affair over, but conveniently circumventing any obstacles between them when it suited her? Her every action had only made him want her more; had that been her intent? Was he being drawn into a pursuit where he was unwittingly the hunted instead of the hunter? Was he about to be used and humiliated again by a woman?

  With a flinch he swore and ran both hands over his head. He was doing it again, seeing shades of Portia where there probably were none. What an idiot he would be if he let her haunt him forever. In truth, he hadn’t thought much about her in recent years. But here he was, suddenly ascribing the same motives and intentions to Sophie, on very slim evidence.

  The key was in his desk. It took him a minute to find it, but then he turned to the large chiffonier between the windows. He set the lamp nearby, turning up the flame, and unlocked the top cabinet. It took a few minutes to find the miniature. It was smaller than he remembered, the delicate silver frame a bit tarnished after all these years. Jack held it by the flickering lamp and stared at the face of his first love.

  She looked so young. In his memory she was a woman, as beautiful and deceptive as Eve, but in this tiny portrait she looked barely more than a girl. It surprised him. He tilted the frame and studied her round cheek, her tiny rosebud mouth, her golden curls. He’d been taken with her almost at first sight, and thought the same had happened for her. She welcomed his attention, smiled at everything he said, even let him kiss her. Being with her was not like being with other young ladies, who were all too obviously sizing him up as a potential husband. Portia didn’t seem to care two farthings for that.

  She’d seemed perfect: beautiful, vivacious, unconventional. She liked horse races and art. She learned Russian instead of French, like most young ladies, because she read about the czar’s court and found it more interesting. She was every bit of his class and the world he knew, and she still managed to be a breath of fresh air. Jack’s father approved of her, and Portia’s parents actively encouraged him. Somewhat to his surprise, Jack found himself agreeing with all of them that he probably ought to marry her. He even fancied himself in love.

  That was when she eloped with another man. One night she danced three times with him at a ball, causing a flurry of whispers and expectations, and the next day she slipped out the back of a milliner’s shop while buying bonnets with her maid and into a waiting carriage to flee northward. Only later did he learn that she’d had a secret, unsanctioned engagement to a rising naval officer all the time she’d been flirting with him. Her father, the Earl of Farnsworth, disapproved, and maneuvered to have the young man sent away to sea. He told his daughter to find someone more appropriate. Portia found Jack and used him for her purpose: fooling her parents while she made plans to run away with her lover to Scotland, where she could marry him without banns or her father’s permission.

  She begged his pardon in the note she left behind, but it took little time for Jack to hear the whole truth. She had never cared for him at all. In her eyes, he was an idle young man who would become an idle old man waiting to inherit his title. There was a war going on, and her naval officer was already famous for a daring raid on a Spanish port. Portia saw herself sailing the world with him, a decorated hero and fearless adventurer. She’d scoffed with her friends about how no one would ever know Jack’s name; he’d be nothing but a numeral in the line of Dukes of Ware. She wanted a man of action, not someone who would inherit everything that made him desirable.

  Carefully Jack restored the miniature to the cabinet. He’d long since got over the shock that she wanted another man. She was heartless and calculating to use him as she did, and he’d thought himself brokenhearted, but that faded in time. The scar Portia left on him was not a broken heart, as the ignorant gossips thought; it was the realization that no one would ever want him for himself. Less than a month after Portia’s elopement, the eighth Duke of Ware, Jack’s father, drowned. At the age of twenty-­four, wholly unprepared and unready, Jack inherited the sprawling estates, massive wealth, and heavy responsibility of the dukedom.

  His more fortunate friends, the ones who either had not yet inherited their titles or who had no titles in the family to inherit, teased him about it. Now there were no tedious limits on his behavior or spending. Now he could have any woman he wanted, they said, with knowing winks and ribald laughter, and carouse as much as he pleased. That was small consolation, when the one woman he’d thought he wanted ran off with another man, and his carefree life as an heir had been crushed beneath the mountain of duty and obligation of a duke. Any woman he approached now saw not him, but a duchess’s coronet.

  Sophie Campbell was the first woman since Portia to m
ake him think she didn’t care for his title. For a moment the thought that had tantalized him at Alwyn House—­why couldn’t he call on any woman he chose?—­beat at his brain. He didn’t need to marry for money or consequence, so why couldn’t he break several generations of tradition and marry a woman just because he wanted her? Assuming he wanted to marry her.

  Did he? Could one even decide such a thing in the space of a few weeks?

  You don’t really know her, hissed his conscience. He’d thought the same about Portia, but she’d been deceiving him. He clearly didn’t know much about women. No matter how deeply Jack felt that Sophie was not like Portia, the fact remained that she had secrets, secrets she seemed determined to keep.

  What was Sophie hiding?

  Chapter 20

  For the next fortnight Jack steadfastly ignored those secrets and what they might mean about Sophie.

  He kept to his plan of shadowing Philip. When his brother went to Vega’s, so did he—­until a quarter past one o’clock. At that time he left, occasionally with a mocking salute from Philip, who had grown to accept his presence but not with particularly good grace. Jack no longer cared either way. Mr. Forbes, who was remarkably observant of patrons’ habits, soon had a hackney waiting for him when he walked into the reception hall. Every night Jack took the hack to Tottenham Court Road and walked to Sophie’s neat little house in Alfred Street so as not to disturb—­or alert—­her neighbors.

  Those stolen hours in the dark of night fed something deep in Jack’s soul. Every time she opened the door to let him in, his heart leaped at the sight of her face. When they hurried up the stairs, hand in hand, he felt more alive than ever before in his life. And when her bedroom door closed behind them, and he could kiss her and strip her bare and make love to her until they lay twined around each other in bed, hearts pounding and skin damp from exertion, he allowed himself to think again about his position.