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

by Caroline Linden

  “Do you want him to be?” Eliza squeezed her hand. “If he did propose, would you accept?”

  “Yes,” she whispered without thinking. The longing in the word surprised her, but obviously not Eliza, who was nodding.

  “You made your plan to find a husband. Why can’t he be it?”

  “He’s a duke,” she pointed out again.

  “And you’re the granddaughter of a viscount.”

  “The disowned granddaughter of a misanthropic viscount,” she corrected. “With scandalous parents and only the fortune I’ve won at the tables. Even if my connection to Makepeace were known, it would do me no good because I’m just as dead to him as my father was.”

  “If the duke loves you, he won’t mind,” persisted Eliza.

  “And I gamble every night,” Sophie went on. “He dislikes gambling.”

  “If you married him, you wouldn’t need to gamble again. Would you give it up?”

  She gave a dispirited laugh. Some nights it only felt like she went to Vega’s to pass the time until Jack knocked on her door. She hadn’t even checked her account there in a fortnight, something she’d never overlooked before. “Yes. But—­”

  “Sophie.” Eliza pressed her hand again. “If you love him, you must tell him the truth.”

  “That I love him?”

  “No, about you. No love can flourish and grow without honesty.”

  If Sophie had any secret that she kept more hidden than her affair with Jack, it was her history. She pulled free of Eliza’s grip. “Honesty could also be fatal.” She jumped up from her seat and paced to the window. “I fear he doesn’t want more than what we have now. Telling him everything would only confirm that I’m not fit to be a duchess.” Telling him everything might also cause him to reconsider their whole affair, and deep down Sophie feared that most of all. She had already accepted that she would never be a duchess, but now that she had embarked on this doomed, wonderful, secret, passionate affair, she wanted it to last as long as possible.

  “Well.” Eliza gave her a sympathetic look. “You know the only way to find out. You must ask him—­after you tell him the truth about yourself.”

  Sophie folded her arms and gazed out at the street. Almost unconsciously her brain started asking what the odds were. Jack never asked about her family, but he listened to her stories of her childhood with a fond smile. That boded well. He never said anything against her attendance at Vega’s, possibly because he was there himself every night. That also helped. And, as strange as it seemed, she felt they were equals in their affair. Whatever you will give me, I will take, he’d said. What if she offered him her heart, along with all the rest of her? Perhaps the chances weren’t so negligible after all . . .

  There was a rustle of cloth as Eliza came to stand beside her. “When I told you about Hastings, you assured me he couldn’t fail to love me. That’s quite ludicrous for you to say, as you don’t know him at all. Why do you dismiss it so quickly when I suggest the duke might fall in love with you?”

  “Because I’m not as sweet as you are.”

  “Rubbish,” declared her friend. “You’ve endured more than I have. You’re stronger and more resourceful and cleverer—­”

  “No,” she protested.

  Eliza nodded stubbornly. “Far more clever, and more beautiful. I’m sure His Grace can see all that just as well as I can. You must give him a chance.”

  Sophie made a face, but her brain was being won over by Eliza’s argument. Jack knew what she was—­not every detail, but enough. If she wanted a chance at real happiness with him, she would have to tell him everything. If he recoiled in disgust and stopped coming to her, then she must accept the fact that his feelings weren’t as deep as hers. Perhaps it would be the spur she needed to end things.

  But if he didn’t recoil . . .

  “Yes,” she said softly. “You’re right.” She took a deep breath and nodded once. “I’ll tell him.”

  Chapter 22

  Jack spent the day trying to determine whether or not Lucinda might consider herself engaged to him.

  It had to be investigated with extreme discretion. As certain as he was that it was all a scheme his mother had concocted with Lady Stowe, if word got around that he was discussing it, everyone would believe it was true, or that he was on the brink of proposing and making it true. If all of London believed them engaged, he would be in an impossible situation. When engagements were rumored but then failed to occur, it was widely presumed that either the lady had declined the offer of marriage, or something had changed the gentleman’s mind about making the offer at all. The latter would spread a rash of unfair whispers about Lucinda, which Jack had no wish to do; but the former would put the matter entirely in Lucinda’s hands. And if she had indeed grown up expecting—­wanting—­to become a duchess . . . he could very well find himself caught, with no honorable way out.

  He made very little headway in either direction, though. His solicitor assured him that legally he was under no obligation to a woman until settlements had been negotiated. But Percy produced records showing the extent of his “looking after” of Lady Stowe and her daughter that surprised even Jack. He had approved everything at the time, but only when he saw the sum of it over seven years did he realize how devoted it appeared.

  In desperation he called upon a man he knew only slightly. Once upon a time, before his father died, Jack had run with a crowd of hell-­raising rogues. The wildest of them all had been Lord David Reece. He doubted Reece would have anything helpful to add—­Reece still possessed a wild streak and would never be called discreet—­but his elder brother was a different story. The Duke of Exeter, Jack dimly remembered, had been supposedly engaged to a society lady when he suddenly presented an entirely different woman to the ton as his bride. The new duchess had set tongues wagging; she was a commoner, the widow of a country vicar, and London seethed with curiosity to know how on earth Exeter had ever met such a woman, let alone married her.

  Since Jack was considering doing very nearly the same thing, he felt a fiendish desire to know how Exeter had managed it. Fortunately the duke was in when he called.

  “I have a rather intrusive question,” he began after being shown into Exeter’s private study. “One I would like to keep utterly private between us.”

  Exeter’s dark brows went up. “How intriguing.”

  “Once upon a time it was rumored you were betrothed to Lady Willoughby.”

  The polite interest in Exeter’s face died, and his expression grew forbidding. “There was no betrothal,” he said coldly.

  Jack nodded. “I never meant to suggest otherwise. It is the rumors I am concerned with—­specifically how they affected Lady Willoughby when proven untrue.”

  For a long moment the other man glared at him. Jack remembered David Reece saying his brother’s stare could turn a man inside out, and thought that it might be true. Jack, however, was far too desperate to know the answer to his question, and simply waited. Finally Exeter spoke. “Dancing attendance on rumor will drive a man into an early grave.”

  “Right.” He wished intensely there was anyone else he could ask. But he’d lost touch with most of his mates from years past, and was only realizing there was almost no one he could approach about this. “I would not ask if I did not find myself potentially entangled in a similar knot, utterly without warning or action on my part.”

  Finally Exeter’s face relaxed. Something like a smile crossed his lips. “Ah. I know one thing—­marriage to someone else puts a quick end to the matter.”

  His heart jumped at that thought. “But the lady presumed to be your fiancée . . . How did you tell her?” He could not leave Lady Lucinda to face a storm of whispers about why he hadn’t married her. If, indeed, everyone—­or anyone—­thought he was about to.

  Exeter turned and gazed toward the windows. The casements were open slightly, and the
faint sound of a child’s voice, raised in excitement, drifted into the quiet study. “I believe she read it in the newspapers,” he murmured. “It was . . . regrettable, but as I said—­there was never an engagement between us.”

  Jack let out his breath in disappointment. He couldn’t possibly do that to Lucinda.

  “I always thought it ludicrous that society took such an interest in my bride,” remarked Exeter idly. “As if my judgment could be trusted in the House of Lords to steer the course of Britain, but my choice of wife must be approved by all of London.” He glanced at Jack. “There are undoubtedly some among the ton who believe any man with a title and fortune rightly belongs to one of them, and they take his marriage to someone outside their society as a personal affront.”

  “But you did it,” said Jack in a low tone.

  An honest smile bloomed on the other man’s face. He rose from his seat behind the desk. “I did. Would you care to step into the gardens with me?”

  Mystified, Jack nevertheless bowed his head in agreement. Exeter had been remarkably forthcoming on a very private topic. It hadn’t helped him on the question of Lucinda, but it did add to his growing belief that he was willing to chance a scandal to have Sophie.

  That belief only grew as they went into the sunlit gardens. Exeter House, as one of the older great houses in town, was a small estate in the middle of London, not hemmed in by neighboring houses as Ware House was. A formal garden lay behind the house, and as they skirted a bed of roses, a little girl with long blond curls bolted toward them. “Papa!”

  The change in Exeter was startling. His cool reserve vanished, and a warm smile lit his face as he caught the child up in his arms. “Molly, dear, you must meet my guest. His Grace the Duke of Ware.” He set her back down on her feet. “Ware, may I present my stepdaughter, Miss Molly Preston.”

  She wobbled into an off balance curtsy and recited, “It is a pleasure to make your ‘quaintance, sir.”

  Jack smiled at her, his heart swelling at the thought of another little girl, practicing her curtsies in front of the mirror. He bowed. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Preston.”

  She gave him a wide smile before turning back to Exeter. “Mama caught a butterfly. Come see it!”

  Exeter smiled at her. “In a moment. Are there a great many butterflies out today?”

  “So many!” she cried, before turning and running down the path toward a dark-­haired woman. She wore a very fashionable gown, but wielded a long-­handled bag-­net.

  “Thank you, Exeter. It had been illuminating.” Jack inclined his head in farewell and turned to go.

  “Ware.” Exeter’s voice made him pause. “Marrying the right woman is worth a scandal,” murmured the duke, his eyes on the woman catching butterflies. “Worth any scandal. I cannot give you better advice than that. Good day.” He turned and walked away, toward his duchess with the insect net and his stepdaughter, who was climbing on top of a bench and reaching for the butterflies that fluttered above the profusion of roses.

  A servant stepped forward to show him out. Jack went, unable to shake the image of Exeter’s face. The man had been pleased when he saw the child, but when he saw his wife . . . It was as clear as day that Exeter loved her, passionately and deeply.

  Worth any scandal, indeed.

  Philip was waiting for him in the hall at Vega’s that evening. “Dear brother,” he said with false cheer. “Might I have a word in private?”

  Jack repressed a sigh. He had hoped to intercept Sophie before she reached Vega’s, to no avail. Though no closer to a solution to the question of Lucinda, he was desperate to see her. Marrying the right woman puts an end to any rumors of other engagements, Exeter had said, which Jack was beginning to think a sensible choice. If he whisked Sophie to the nearest church and married her by special license, it would put a quick end to the problem, scandal be damned. He just needed to know if she would have him.

  However, he’d been expecting this confrontation with Philip. He hadn’t done anything other than keep his brother in sight at all times, but he suspected that was unnerving Philip more than if he’d scolded and harangued him to stop gambling. “Of course. Lead the way.”

  They went through the main salon, down a corridor lined with several doors. Philip opened one for him and then closed the door behind himself. They were in a small room with a table and two leather chairs, with a sideboard nearby waiting to hold decanters and the smell of smoke lingering in the room. This must be where the high stakes private games were played.

  “What the devil do you want from me?” Philip demanded.

  Jack folded his arms. “I’ve only made one demand.”

  “Which I have followed to the letter!”

  “To the letter,” he agreed.

  “Then why are you still here?” his brother exclaimed. “Why are you following me like a nursemaid?”

  “Because your promises have not always been reliable.”

  Philip threw up his hands. “One bloody time!” Jack gave him a speaking look, and Philip flushed. “One time when you cared.”

  “You mistake the matter,” Jack corrected him. “I cared every time you broke your word. That time was simply once too often.”

  “No,” Philip growled. “You cared more than usual that time. Because of her.”

  His whole body tensed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous!” His brother snorted. “That would describe you, playing hazard. At first I thought you did it simply to humiliate me, but you’ve never cared that much before, to risk your own reputation and funds. And you hate gambling! You’ve lectured me far too many times about it for there to be any doubt. No, you wanted Sophie—­Mrs. Campbell—­and you maneuvered to take her away from me.”

  Jack wanted to snarl back that Sophie had never been Philip’s, and had never wanted to be Philip’s. Again the urge to declare her his rose inside him, and again he had to push it down. He’d given his word. “She was not yours.”

  Philip scowled. “She was—­”

  “She was not yours,” Jack repeated forcefully. “I asked her, Philip, and she denied it. How dare you suggest I would contrive to steal a woman’s affections from you? What sort of brother do you think I am?”

  “You wanted her!” Philip charged.

  “Suppose I did.” Jack knew he was doing a dangerous thing, but he was boiling with frustration already, and someone had to make Philip see reason. “Would it matter, if she’d wanted you instead? Wouldn’t she be the one to decide?”

  His brother glared at him. “Of course.”

  “And what did she say to you?” He put his hands out. “She’s at perfect liberty to bestow her favor where she likes.”

  He knew very well what Sophie had told Philip. And as hoped, some of Philip’s fury faded. He scowled at the floor. “You took her away to punish me.”

  “I did,” Jack baldly admitted. “Nothing else I did got through to you. Philip, you’re flirting with ruin. I’m not speaking of Mrs. Campbell, but the gaming. A public spectacle and the loss of her company are small prices to pay if you quit the tables now.”

  “Quit!”

  “At least moderate your play,” Jack argued. “For your own sake, but think of Mother, as well. She indulges you, but even her patience will run out eventually.”

  “Moderate!” Philip flung himself into a chair moodily. “What does that mean? If I stop when I lose, it will only ensure I never win it back.”

  “It astonishes me that I’m about to say this,” Jack said, thinking of what Sophie had said about Philip’s play, “but you might try learning more skill. You play poorly, and then you become reckless, and that’s why your losses are so crippling.”

  His brother’s mouth dropped open. “Are you suggesting I take lessons? For hazard and vingt-­un?”

  “Think of it as improving your odds.”

 
Philip was still staring at him as if he’d sprouted horns and a tail. “Are you mad? A gambling tutor?”

  “Are you mad, to keep playing as lackadaisically as you have been?” Jack shot back. “What do you expect will happen? Playing badly time after time after time doesn’t give you a chance to win back your stake, it causes you to lose more and more. If you won’t give it up entirely, or even moderate your wagering, at least learn to play the bloody odds!”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, as Jack began to think the gambit had failed utterly, Philip muttered, “Well, I suppose a little practice couldn’t hurt.”

  Jack ignored the fact that he had just encouraged his brother to become a better gambler, which would only lead him to wager more often instead of less. “Of course not. Buck up, man,” he said bracingly. “It’s not like learning Latin all over again.”

  That elicited a sharp bark of laughter from his brother. “Thank God for it.” He looked at Jack without animosity, for the first time in weeks. “How does one locate a gambling tutor?”

  Jack thought of Sophie patiently listing the odds of hazard rolls, and watching the cards so intently in vingt-­un. He lifted one shoulder and turned toward the door. “Ask a clever player.”

  Philip laughed. “I know just the one! Mrs. Campbell plays better than any bloke I know. I’ll ask her.”

  The name caught him off guard. “No,” he said instantly. “Not Sophie.”

  “I knew it.” Philip leaped to his feet. “This is about her.”

  Damn it. He’d given himself away by saying her name. Slowly Jack turned around to face his brother again. “No,” he repeated. “You’re not to speak to her.”

  Philip gave a bark of incredulous laughter. “I’m not to speak to her, even about something like cards—­you stand over my shoulder every night to make certain I keep my distance—­but not because you have any interest in her! No, you goaded her to play hazard with you after humiliating me in front of the entire club, then you whisked her out of the club and set tongues wagging about her morals.” He shook his head in disgust. “Lie to yourself if you want, but don’t tell me you don’t want her.”