My Once and Future Duke

by Caroline Linden

  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.”

  “That is not your concern,” Jack bit out.

  “No?” Philip scoffed. “She was my friend before you ever set eyes on her. How do you have more claim on her than I do?”

  “Not one more word about her.” His temper was hanging by a thread. He turned on his heel and reached for the door.

  “She deserves better, Ware.”

  He stopped. His brother’s voice rang with warning. Philip stood like a fighter ready to box, feet wide, hands loose at his sides. “You’re hardly the one to decide what she deserves.”

  “Neither are you!”

  Jack recoiled.

  Philip glared. “You’ve already done enough to her, don’t you think?”

  “What the hell does that mean?” he growled.

  “Dragging her off to Alwyn House like a Roman with a Sabine woman?” Jack gave a small but perceptible start. “I’m not the only one who doubts the story she spread, although I may be the only one who knows you like to slip away to Alwyn for a few days now and then. Very conveniently near, for a secluded seduction.”

  Jack took a step toward his brother. It had been years since they fought physically, but his hands were in fists and his muscles were taut. “Close your bloody mouth.”

  “I have a bit of advice for you,” his brother continued, “since you’ve been so generous with yours today. Sophie Campbell isn’t going to be your mistress, so you can give up hope there.”

  “Shut it,” he growled.

  “No, I will not,” his brother snapped back. “Give her up. And do it before you announce your engagement, for God’s sake.”

  Jack froze. “What?”

  His brother shook his head, scorn written on his face. “Mother told me about it. Sophie won’t have anything to do with you once she knows. She turns away every married man who approaches her.”

  “I am not engaged,” said Jack, his heart beginning to thud.

  Philip raised his eyebrows in patent skepticism. “Almost engaged is nearly the same as married, among the ton. You know that.”

  Damn it. Damn it to hell. Jack concentrated on breathing deeply as his thoughts caromed from his mother to Lucinda to Sophie—Sophie, who would feel cruelly betrayed if she heard that rumor. He had to put a stop to this nonsense before it got out of control and ruined whatever chance he had to persuade her that he hadn’t deceived her and wanted her, not Lucinda or any other woman. “You should avoid idle gossip,” he said coldly.

  His brother spread his hands. “Idle? Mother says it will happen, and we both know you always let her have her way in the end. She’ll spread the news all over London within days, if she hasn’t already, and I know you—you’re too honorable to throw Lucinda over then.” Philip leaned forward, his dark eyes deadly serious. “I’m offering you some well-intentioned advice—forget Sophie. Leave her alone. You ruined my chances with her—fine—but she deserves better than you, too.”

  Chapter 23

  Eliza’s words played over and over inside Sophie’s head.

  She had formulated her Grand Plan at the age of eighteen or nineteen, while darning Lady Fox’s best lace mitts for twenty pounds a year as a hired companion. Sitting quietly behind Lady Fox, watching her flirt and have affairs with men half her age, Sophie had distilled her own goals into a short, simple list: security, companionship, and a family. She hated worrying about how she might keep a roof over her head if her elderly employer died. She hated watching other young ladies her age smile and dance with gentlemen before becoming wives and mothers, while knowing such a fate was unlikely for her. She hated being alone. Her friends were wonderful and loyal, but Sophie knew very well it would not be long before Eliza and Georgiana both had husbands and children of their own. Having lost her only family at the age of twelve, Sophie could think of nothing she wanted more than a comfortable home with a husband who was fond of her and a child or two to brighten her life.

  To have a family, she needed a husband. To get a husband, she needed a fortune. To gain a fortune, she turned to the card tables. And so far, everything had been proceeding acco
rding to that plan . . . until Jack.

  Eliza suggested he could be the solution to her Grand Plan. Even as Sophie denied it, the idea didn’t need much encouragement to take root and flourish in her mind. Why couldn’t he be? The odds might not be high, but they weren’t zero. Sometimes one had to chance long odds, when the reward was tantalizing enough.

  When the clock struck one, she rose from the whist table at Vega’s and collected her winnings, fending off protests at her early departure with a smile. Without fanfare she went and collected her cloak, asked Mr. Forbes to fetch her a hackney and left, exactly as she did every other night. At her house she let herself in and waited, pacing circles around her parlor.

  She would start with the worst—her gambling—and progress from there. Eliza was right, and she either needed to trust him enough with the truth, or break things off with him because she couldn’t trust him.

  Within minutes there was a soft knock upon the door. Her heart jumped into her throat as she hurried to open it. He stepped over the threshold and caught her in his arms.

  “I’ve been watching the clock for hours,” he whispered, his hands in her hair. “I thought it would never reach one o’clock.”

  Her pulse beat wildly. She cupped her hands around his jaw and kissed him, her lips lingering on his. To hell with the odds. She loved him—she trusted him. Eliza was right. If she wanted more from him, she had to be honest. Flushed, nervous and hopeful at the same time, she put her hands on his chest. “Nor did I. I’ve been waiting all day to talk to you.”

  He stiffened with a perceptible jerk. “Oh?”

  The wariness in that word gave her pause, but Sophie banished it and forged on. “There is something I must tell you, before things grow even more complicated between us.”