“Indeed it is, to see you.” His gaze flicked to the man beside her. “Good evening, Carter.”
He gave a tight nod. “Lindeville. You must pardon us. I was about to see Mrs. Campbell home.”
His eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. “Home? Surely not. It’s not even ten o’clock, and the lady hasn’t been at Vega’s in several nights. Don’t deny the rest of us the pleasure of her company.”
“You flatter me, sir,” she said, smiling as best she could. Act normally. “But to my great regret, I feel unwell.”
“Good heavens.” He rocked back on his heels. “After you’ve been ill these last several days? I’m growing concerned, Mrs. Campbell.”
And the eavesdroppers were growing interested. How cruel it would be if she single-handedly brought down Vega’s pledge of secrecy by being so scandalous no one could resist gossiping about it. “How kind of you, my lord, but unnecessary. It is nothing more than a headache,” she said firmly, keeping her voice low. “I’m sure a good night’s sleep is all I need.”
“No, no, a glass of wine shall restore you.” He reached for her arm, subtly edging Giles Carter aside. “Say you’ll stay.”
Sophie stubbornly resisted and looked him full in the face—his face, enough like Jack’s to make her heart twist. “Not tonight, sir.”
“The lady said no, Lindeville,” said Carter quietly.
Philip’s eyes grew dark and turbulent, and his mouth pulled into a hard line. “Perhaps we should send for a doctor. It seems very serious, this illness—it’s lasted several days, and it came upon you very suddenly, didn’t it?” He cocked his head. “Right about the time my brother appeared.” A sardonic smile crossed his face. “Although I find his presence also makes me feel ill of late.”
“Oh no,” she said, pretending he hadn’t spoken suspiciously and angrily. “I wasn’t seriously ill—only a cold, miserable as they are. I may have overtaxed myself by coming out tonight.”
Philip glanced at her companion. “Carter, be a sport and give me a moment with Mrs. Campbell.” When Carter scowled, Philip laid one hand over his heart. “I’ve been worried about her.”
He was going to make a scene; he was already making one. Sophie gave Mr. Carter a slight nod, and after a moment he stepped backward and bowed. His expression was inscrutable. “I see. Good evening, Mrs. Campbell.”
With a sinking heart, Sophie watched him walk away. She turned to Philip and reminded herself that she could not slap him, no matter how much he deserved it. How had she let this spoiled, arrogant young man have such sway over her life? “My head is aching already, and I haven’t the strength to argue with you.”
He looked offended as he pulled her hand around his elbow. “There won’t be an argument. I only want to talk.” He led her to one of the small sofas at the edge of the room. It was still in the main salon, but far from the hazard and faro tables, where the crowd was concentrated.
“Lord Philip,” she began as soon as she took a seat, “this cannot contin—”
He raised one hand in a gesture so like Jack, she stopped midword. “Answer one question. I have to know. Did my brother do anything offensive to you?” His tone implied suspicion of all manner of abuse and humiliation.
She snapped her mouth shut before she could give herself away by springing violently to Jack’s defense. “No.”
“Nothing?” He pressed her hand between his. “If he did, I will make him regret it.”
Sophie tugged her hands free of his grip. “Philip, this is madness.”
He scowled. “What?”
“You’re making a spectacle of me,” she said bluntly. “Of yourself. Please stop.”
“Mrs. Campbell—Sophie,” he protested. “I would never do such a thing.”
She looked at him in reproach. “Think, my lord. You insist I stay and talk with you. You turn away Mr. Carter, who was merely escorting me to the hall so I could have Mr. Forbes summon a hackney. The other night you interrupted a perfectly cordial game of whist I was playing with Mr. Whitley and Mr. Fraser and insisted I play hazard with you instead.”
For a moment he looked shocked, but then a penitent smile curved his mouth. Again he looked like Jack, and again it made her chest ache. “I hadn’t realized, but now I see you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“I enjoy your company very much,” she told him, “but you must understand my position. Even I have to mind my reputation.”
He laughed. “Must you? Reputations are such tiresome things . . .” She lifted one shoulder as if in resignation, and he ran a hand over his head, ruffling the dark waves. “It’s a good thing my brother is such a dry stick. If it were anyone else, I’d never believe him indifferent to you.”
She never knew if he meant it to be a trap, but if so, it was an effective one. At this unexpected mention of Jack, her mask slipped; something must have shown on her face, for Philip—who was watching her closely—grew suddenly grim. “What did he do?”
Sophie’s temper was fraying with every word. She had enjoyed Philip’s company, laughed at his wit, been flattered by his attention. But she had never encouraged him to think she wanted more. She was too mindful of what it would cost her to step over the line. Everyone believed her a respectable if somewhat high-spirited widow, which gave her some license to have companions like Philip and Mr. Carter, but she did not want society to believe her a very different sort of widow.
And Philip, who had appeared to respect the boundaries earlier in their friendship, was all but proclaiming her his, which was not and would never be true. In truth, Sophie thought his behavior was really more about his brother than about her, but it was incontrovertible that her reputation was the one that would suffer if he persisted in this.
She looked him squarely in the face. “What I do is not your concern, my lord.”
He blinked. “I only want to know about my brother’s treatment—”
“No! I am not answering. You have no right to question what I do.” She drew a deep breath. “If you wish to know about your brother’s actions, you should speak to him. Perhaps he will feel obliged to answer. I do not.”
For a moment there was silence. Philip was clearly struggling to master his own temper; suspicion and uncertainty flashed across his face in rapid succession. “I beg your pardon,” he said at last. “I was concerned for you.”
“Thank you, but I am fine.” She got to her feet. “I am tired, I have a headache, and now I am going home. Good night.”
He followed her out, an uneasy frown on his brow. Sophie tried to ignore him. Now she did feel unwell, cold and clammy and her heart racing. She squeezed her bloodless hands together as Mr. Forbes sent someone to fetch her a hackney. Mr. Carter had disappeared, and she couldn’t even regret it. She only wanted to go home, get into bed and pull the covers over her head.
Frank, the servant who monitored the cloak room, brought her cloak, and Philip waved him off, taking the cloak and draping it around her shoulders himself. “Let me take you home,” he said. “To be sure you’re well.”
If she left with him tonight, after the way she’d left with Jack a week ago, she would never recover. “Thank you, no,” she told Philip coolly. “I can manage on my own.” She faced away from him, all but giving him the cut direct.
“Very well.” His voice was also chilled. “I shall see you another evening, madam.”
She nodded once. “Good night, sir.”
It was almost four minutes later when the hackney arrived. Sophie knew because she could see the clock on the mantel of the small fireplace at the side of the reception hall. It seemed an eternity because she could also tell Philip hadn’t budged. He stood behind her, silent but looming, and it made her want to spin around and tell him off properly.
Instead she clenched her teeth shut and watched the mechanism on the clock tick away the seconds. When Forbes finally came to say her hackney was waiting, she all but ran out the door. She didn’t mean to look back, but as she stepped into the carriage and gave
the driver the direction, she caught sight of Philip, on the steps of Vega’s, watching her moodily.
Oh dear.
Chapter 16
“There is a lady to see you, Your Grace. She refused to give her name, but sent in this.” The butler held out his tray.
Jack’s gaze jumped to the note on the salver. It had been almost a week since he last saw Sophie—five days, to be exact. For five days he had personally inspected every item of his correspondence on the slim chance there would be something from her. He had no idea of her handwriting, and yet somehow he knew from looking at it that this came from her. Unconsciously holding his breath, he picked up the note and broke the seal.
I must see you about an urgent matter. —S.
“Show her in,” he said to the butler. “Percy, that will be all for now.” His secretary looked up from his station at the far end of the room, startled. Jack gave a curt nod: Go. Percy gathered his papers and bowed out of the room after the butler, closing the door behind them.
He got to his feet and paced around his desk, trying to calm the ecstatic leaping of his pulse. What could she want? He reminded himself it was far more likely to be bad news than good, but even that couldn’t quiet the thudding of his heart. She was here, in his house . . .
The door opened. “Your Grace,” said Browne in starkly disapproving tones. “Your visitor.”
He turned. She wore dark gray, a black veil over her bonnet, but as soon as the butler closed the door she threw it off. And Jack felt like he could breathe again, for the first time in five days, at the sight of her face.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, dropping her extravagant curtsy.
“Mrs. Campbell.” He bowed. As if they were polite acquaintances, not one-time lovers. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you for seeing me. I am sorry to disturb you.” She came into the room and removed her bonnet. Her hair was pinned up in a severe knot, and he longed to pull out the pins and see it streaming down her back again.
He cleared his throat and tried to banish the image of her with her unbound hair spread across his pillows. “Not at all.”
She faced him, somber and beautiful, and his knuckles grew white, gripping the edge of the desk behind him. If he didn’t anchor himself somehow, he would never be able to keep his distance from her. “Something must be done about Philip.”
Jack thought he’d misheard. “What about him?” he growled.
“He will not leave me alone,” she said, her voice tight. “Everywhere I go, he appears. I have told him several times I won’t wager with him anymore, so he merely follows me. He gambles wildly, and I suspect he’s losing a great deal. The other night I heard him blame his bad play on the loss of Lady Luck’s affections, and then he turned to look quite pointedly at me—causing everyone else to look at me, too. He is making me and himself objects of gossip and speculation.”
Jack let out his breath. Curse Philip. “I will speak to him.”
Pink rose in her cheeks. “I’m not certain that will be enough. I tried speaking to him, and then I tried not speaking to him. Others have tried to reason with him as well, all to no effect. He is angry, and he’s not making any effort to hide it.”
Jack wanted to know, intensely, who else had spoken on her behalf. “And you think my words will have no greater impact.”
She hesitated, wetting her lips. Helplessly he watched, wishing he were the one tasting her mouth. “He’s angry at you,” she said softly.
“That is normal.” Philip was usually annoyed at him over something.
“No.” Sophie shook her head, seeming to understand what he meant. “He is jealous. He demanded to know what happened between us.”
His muscles tensed. “What did you tell him?” His brother—the world—mustn’t know the truth, and yet something deep inside him rebelled at the thought of saying nothing had happened between him and Sophie. Damn it, he wanted her and he wanted everyone to know she was his—
Except that she wasn’t. And he had given his word.
“I told him it was none of his concern!” she exclaimed. “He came to call twice at my house while I was . . . away. My maid told him I was ill, but he wasn’t fully convinced. He makes insinuations and suggestive comments, fishing for information. I have tried my best to avoid him, but he’s persistent.”
“What does he hope to achieve?”
“I have no idea!” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “He is making me an object of speculation.” She nibbled her lip, then continued, looking deeply uneasy, “He implied I had been your whore.”
Jack came off the edge of the desk, hands in fists. “When?”
“Last night. He was drinking. I don’t think anyone else heard, but it’s only a matter of time—”
“I don’t give a damn what his excuse is,” he retorted. “That is utterly unacceptable.”
For the first time a tremulous smile appeared on her face. Jack’s fury subsided, and he was beside her before he even realized he was moving. “It won’t happen again,” he said, and then—unable to resist any longer—he smoothed a loose wisp of hair from her temple. “I give you my word.”
“How?” Her eyes were warily hopeful. “Can you keep him from Vega’s?”
Jack wound the tendril around his fingertip. He probably couldn’t bar his brother from Vega’s, not without posting a servant outside the club with orders to physically restrain Philip from entering. Dashwood might not be pleased about that. “I can prevent him bothering you. You may depend on that.” He had no idea how, but right now all that mattered was reassuring her.
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, almo
st 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 . . .
My Once and Future Duke Page 17