“Did he? Thank God you ignored him.” Jack raised his voice as the club owner reached them. “Dashwood.”
“Your Grace.” The other man gave a short bow. “Might I have a word?”
“No,” said Jack. “I am leaving.”
Mr. Dashwood didn’t look pleased, but Jack’s cool, aristocratic tone brooked no argument. The owner’s gaze moved to Sophie, who knew her face must be four shades of pink. “Mrs. Campbell. I trust you’ve not forgotten our agreement.”
“No, sir. But I must assure you, I have not lost a wager with His Grace tonight—”
“On the contrary. She’s won everything I have.” Jack finally released her to take her cloak from Frank and swing it around her shoulders. “You may strike my name from your rolls. You may also strike Mrs. Campbell’s name. If she wishes to remain a member, you shall have to enroll her under her new title, Duchess of Ware.”
That stopped Dashwood’s reply, whatever it was to have been. His face froze somewhere between grim disapproval and astonishment. Jack looked past him. “Forbes, I want a carriage. Now.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Without looking at his employer, Forbes bolted by them and out the door.
Sophie summoned a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Dashwood. I have been very pleased to be a member of your club. But I think . . .” She glanced up at Jack, whose expression softened as he gazed down at her. “I think I am through with wagering,” she finished. “I apologize for any uproar I may have caused.”
Mr. Dashwood had recovered his aplomb. “It looks as though you’ve played your cards exceptionally well, madam. I wish you joy.” With a wry glance, he turned and left, just as Forbes rushed back in to say a carriage was waiting. Frank handed Jack his hat and coat, and they went out the door of Vega’s—perhaps for the last time, Sophie thought with a start. As a duchess, it would be unseemly for her to gamble, and she wouldn’t need the money. She would have to learn a great deal about her new life.
Jack helped her into the hackney and climbed in beside her, but the instant the carriage moved forward, he hauled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “Much better,” he growled, pressing his lips to her neck.
“We’ll be scandalous,” she said on a sigh, tilting her head so he could do it again.
“We’ll be happy, which will bore the gossips into an early grave.” He untied her cloak and tugged it out of the way so he could slide his arm around her waist inside the garment.
“Jack.” She twisted to face him. “My uncle came to see me. The Ogre died, and my uncle wants to be cordial. He . . . He’s a lord—Viscount Makepeace.”
He didn’t even blink at this revelation that she had aristocratic connections. “He shall be welcome, so long as he is cordial.”
“But—don’t you see? I am not a nobody with no family now. I never would have said Makepeace’s name aloud while my grandfather was still living, but Uncle Henry—well, he seems kind, like my father.”
Jack touched her lip with one finger. “Sophie. You misunderstood me. I don’t care if your family is royalty or itinerant cardplayers. I want you. I love you. Your uncle, and any other family and friends, are welcome in my house so long as you wish to invite them.”
“Itinerant cardplayers?” She rolled her eyes even as she smiled. “Society would never accept such a duchess.”
“Hang them all,” he said. “Have you a dress to be married in?”
“Well—yes, but I ought to get a better one—”
“I have the special license in my pocket.” He nodded at her gasp of astonishment. “I browbeat every clerk in Doctors’ Commons until they produced it. We only need a vicar and a church. Does tomorrow suit you?”
“Surely a duke doesn’t marry in such a hasty fashion!” She pushed back from him, just enough to see his face. “And you were presumed engaged to someone else just this morning.”
“Presumed,” he stressed. “Only by my mother, who was incorrect.”
“Still, you might have warned me,” she said in reproach. “I was going to beat you at piquet and win your money, just to repay the anguish I suffered when Philip told me about her. Why didn’t you tell me—?”
“I knew I’d only win if you wanted me to.” He stopped her question with a kiss. “And you should never listen to anything Philip says, ever again. I promised to take care of Lucinda after her father died when she was a child. My mother decided I ought to marry her, not I.”
“Philip says she’s a clever, pretty girl . . .”
Jack smiled, pressing his forehead to hers. “She is. Clever enough to want to go to Egypt and discover antiquities, rather than marry a stuffy old duke.”
Sophie raised her brows, unable to stop smiling. “You?”
He gave her his wicked grin, the one she was increasingly certain he reserved for her alone. “I’m afraid so.”
She laughed, and he grinned before shifting his hold on her, until her back was against his chest and her legs straddled his. “Do you know what I thought of doing on that long, long ride to Alwyn House?” he murmured against her nape.
“You said . . .” Her voice broke as his hands skimmed up her thighs, over her belly, to settle around her breasts. “You said you only wanted to teach Philip a lesson . . .”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. The lesson was that he should not interfere in my seduction of you.” He eased the dress off her shoulder with one hand and pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss on her bare skin.
Sophie quaked. “Was that your plan?”
“Plan?” He laughed softly. “I had no plan. Was it the driving thought I couldn’t keep from my mind, no matter how hard I tried? Absolutely. Even when you wore a housemaid’s dress and had cobwebs in your hair.”
She thought of that moment in the attics, when he had brushed close by her and her body had all but gone up in flames. “Did you know I wanted you then?” she whispered, letting her head fall back as his wicked hands ravished her.
His hands paused. “I think we shall live in Alwyn House,” he said after a moment. “Fill it with children and laughter and happiness, so that someday, our great-grandchildren will explore the attics and marvel at how deeply the ninth duke loved his wife.” He kissed the back of her neck, his lips lingering. “My future duchess.”
“Jack.” She gave a little sigh. “My future duke.”
“Until the end of time,” he agreed.
Epilogue
Six weeks later
Hold still, Sophie.”
“I am.”
“No,” he said, with a crease of exasperation between his brows, “you’re not. Your hand is brushing your bodice and it’s driving me mad.”
Sophie laughed. “Like this?” She ran her fingers over her breast, arching her back as she did so.
Her husband’s eyes riveted on her hand. For a moment she thought he would act on the desire she could read in his face, but after a moment he gave his head a small shake and turned back to his sketch pad. “You’re the one who asked me to draw you.”
She smiled. She had, but he was the one who told her to recline on the library sofa in this artlessly seductive pose. Her skirts were pulled up to expose her bare feet, and her hair tumbled loose and free over the arm of the sofa. Merely lying here made her think of the first time he’d made love to her, and how easily he could do so again, now that they were married.
But it was true that she had encouraged him to draw. “I only suggested you draw me because we’ve been alone at Alwyn this past month,” she remarked. “Unless you wish to sketch Wilson while he polishes the silver, I’m the only person who can sit for you.”
“I have no interest in sketching Wilson or anyone else polishing the silver.” His golden hair fell forward over his eyes as he rubbed out something on his pad. It had taken her this long to persuade him it wouldn’t be ridiculous to try his hand at sketching again. But once he pic
ked up the pencil and paper, his reluctance faded away and his face grew intent and absorbed. Her heart felt so full it might burst.
“No?” She grinned. “That ruins my plan to polish your mother’s epergne without any clothes on.”
His pencil stopped moving. Jack drew a deep breath and glanced up at her. “You’re about to be ravished, madam. And doomed never to have a sketch of yourself that anyone else may see.”
Sophie laughed again. She crossed her legs, giving her skirts a little kick to get them out of the way so she could wiggle her toes at him. Jack dropped his sketch pad and pencil on the floor and crossed the room in one step, going down on his knee beside her.
“Heartless wench,” he murmured. “Teasing your poor husband like that . . .”
She wound her arms around his neck. “I humbly apologize. How shall I console him?”
“Oh no, I’m going to repay you. Be careful what you wish for, my dear . . .” His hand closed on her ankle and slid up her leg. “I was drawing you naked, and now I’d like to see you that way.”
Sophie gasped, then laughed, and then caught her breath as he lowered his head and pressed his lips to the pulse at the base of her throat. Wordlessly she clutched his head to her bosom, embracing the tide of heat rushing through her body. Both his hands were under her skirt now, plowing upward, and a tremor went through her. Five weeks of marriage had done nothing to diminish her craving for his touch. Everything else about her new life felt strange and awkward still—from her mother-in-law’s cool regard to her splendid new wardrobe to the way servants bowed when she walked by—but when it was just the two of them, she and Jack, everything felt right.
There was a knock at the door. Wilson had walked in on Jack kissing her rather passionately one morning in the breakfast room, and now he never entered a room without knocking. Sophie appreciated that even if Jack, who’d had servants every day of his life, saw no need for it.
This time they both ignored it, but a moment later the knock came again. When it sounded a third time Jack lifted his head, his eyes blazing with irritation, and barked, “Yes?”
Sophie, her dress now unfastened and disarranged, lay still and quiet out of sight on the sofa as the butler opened the door. “Your Grace, there is a young woman insisting on seeing the duchess. Her name is Lady Georgiana Lucas.” Sophie gasped, and Jack pressed lightly on her chest to quell it.
“She is quite agitated, Your Grace,” added Wilson. “She says it is urgent.”
Sophie gripped his wrist in wordless anxiety. A muscle tensed in Jack’s jaw. “Show her to the Blue Room and assure her the duchess will see her soon.”
“Very good, sir.”
The door closed with a click, and Sophie scrambled up from the cushions. “What can Georgiana be doing here?”
“What, indeed?” Jack watched mournfully as she pulled her bodice back up and began trying to fasten it.
Sophie shook her head. “She would never come without warning unless it was truly, desperately urgent—especially here. What can it be?”
“Trouble with her fiancé,” he guessed, reluctantly helping with her buttons.
“Perhaps.” Sophie was doubtful. Lord Sterling would have to do something very terrible indeed to spoil Georgiana’s regard for him, and he didn’t seem that stupid. Sophie had finally met the elusive viscount after her wedding to Jack; as predicted, Lady Sidlow’s objections to Sophie’s company had melted away once Sophie outranked her. Lord Sterling had come to call at Ware House with Georgiana, the very vision of a suave charmer. He’d expressed his envy that Jack had been able to whisk Sophie to the alter in a matter of days, while Georgiana’s brother, the Earl of Wakefield, dragged out the negotiation of their wedding settlements for an eternity. Sterling had held Georgiana’s hand and looked like a man in love.
“Family,” was Jack’s next idea.
Sophie shook her head. Georgiana knew her family was eccentric and sometimes stuffy, and she laughed at them affectionately. “I can’t imagine what would bring her running to Chiswick.”
“Then I suppose I cannot keep you from her.” Jack pulled her close and kissed her hard. “Go, my dear. I shall sit here and work on my sketch.”
“Without me posing for you?” She affected disappointment as she wound her hair into a knot.
Her husband winked and released her. “I have it fixed in my head, precisely how the sketch should look.”
“Have I got any clothes on in this sketch you can see in your head?” she asked with a laugh.
“Not a scrap.” He scooped up his pencil and pad. “Hurry back and allow me to check my memory.”
Still shaking her head and smiling, Sophie hurried to the Blue Room. Unlike the first time she’d seen it, today the room glowed like a sapphire in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. The garden was a riot of color outside, and just stepping into the room made her smile. But the expression quickly died when Georgiana turned to face her.
“What’s wrong?”
Georgiana rushed across the room. She looked wild, her eyes red-rimmed, her hair swinging free in a braid and her pelisse buttoned wrong. “You’ve got to come back to town with me, Sophie. It’s Eliza.”
Her heart stopped. Eliza should be at home with her own new husband. A fortnight after Sophie wed Jack, Eliza had become the Countess of Hastings, radiant and blushing with joy. The three friends had shared a wonderful moment of tearful happiness, reflecting on how splendidly things had worked out for each of them in love. A dozen years ago, playing illicit card games at Mrs. Upton’s, Sophie never would have guessed they would all find such happiness at the same time. “What’s happened to Eliza?”
“I don’t know,” cried Georgiana, wringing her hands. “She didn’t say, and Lady Sidlow won’t allow me to go on my own. I’m so very sorry to intrude on you, when you and Ware must be so cozy and happy away from London, but I’ve no one else I can ask! Please, Sophie. We have to find her.”
“Find her?” Sophie repeated sharply. “Georgiana, explain!”
Her friend drew a deep breath. “I saw Eliza just two days ago at the Montgomery ball. She was radiant, happy, and looked the picture of bliss. I even saw her dance with Hastings, and I swear they gazed at each other with stars in their eyes. But this morning—” She broke off and dug in her reticule. “She sent me this.”
Sophie took the crumpled note and recognized Eliza’s handwriting. She read the two sentences it contained, then read them again. Stunned, she looked up at Georgiana.
Georgiana nodded grimly. “She’s left her husband. And no one knows where she’s gone.”
About the Author
CAROLINE LINDEN was born a reader, not a writer. She earned a math degree from Harvard University and wrote computer software before turning to writing fiction. Thirteen years, eighteen books, three Red Sox championships, and one dog later, she has never been happier with her decision. Her books have won the NEC Reader’s Choice Beanpot Award, the Daphne du Maurier Award, the NJRW Golden Leaf Award, and RWA’s RITA® Award. Since she never won any prizes in math, she takes this as a sign that her decision was also a smart one. Visit her online at www.CarolineLinden.com.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
my once and future duke. Copyright © 2018 by P.F. Belsley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-267293-3
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-267292-6
Cover illustration by Gregg Gulbronson
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My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1) Page 29