My Once and Future Duke

by Caroline Linden

  The air burned in her lungs. Oh God. Had she really been such a fool? Had she really thought her luck had changed so dramatically? From counting cards and playing for guineas to being the Duchess of Ware? “Idiot,” she whispered to herself. She should have known when Jack—Ware—kept looking at her bare legs that first night at Alwyn House. It hadn’t been love or marriage on his mind. Lady Fox had warned her about that: When a man wants a woman he shouldn’t have, he becomes a dangerous creature, she’d said.

  But Sophie, foolishly, fell for everything because she’d wanted him. And for those few glorious days, she’d thought he was hers.

  She swiped the back of her hand across her burning eyes. No tears. She’d made mistakes before, and had to pick herself up and dust off her pride; she would recover from this, too. It would hurt, much worse than the time she’d miscalculated her odds and lost four hundred pounds in one night. Much, much worse than when her one previous lover broke with her. At least he’d never proposed, only gave her a very handsome diamond bracelet as a parting gift. She’d sold it for two hundred fifty pounds, a plump addition to her nest egg.

  So it would hurt, and her heart might never recover fully, but she would carry on. She had no choice. Perhaps she’d take a holiday to visit Makepeace Manor, as her uncle had offered. Her few memories of it were dark and grim, but this time she might be able to recover some bit of her father and his childhood, before he’d thrown it all away for love . . .

  As a girl she’d thought her parents’ story was beautifully romantic. Now she realized how truly lucky they had been. Papa loved her mother just as much as ever when she lost her voice to a persistent cough and could no longer sing. Mama loved him even when he was unable to win enough at the card tables to support them. Their love had survived heartbreak and hardship and endured to their dying days, and Sophie had somehow thought all love could do the same.

  Papa, she thought hopelessly, I wish you had warned me how terrible love can be.

  Jack arrived at Vega’s later than usual, but in a buoyant mood.

  He had a special license in his pocket. It had taken a few hours to procure, but he’d assumed his most ducal demeanor and sent clerks scurrying until he got it.

  He had a ring in his pocket as well, a flawless ruby set in a golden band; he liked Sophie in red.

  The main reason for his tardy arrival was his mother, who had alternately scolded, wept, and pleaded with him to change his mind. Lady Stowe had broken the news to her earlier, no doubt in a hysterical letter, but Jack still had to weather the storm of her disappointment. When the brunt of it had passed, he told her he was unable to marry Lady Lucinda for two reasons: first, that Lucinda didn’t want him, and second, that he wanted someone else.

  “Lucinda will see reason,” she cried, trailing after him as he went down the stairs.

  “She wants to go to Egypt.” He grinned at the memory of her enthusiasm.

  The duchess looked blank. “Egypt? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she doesn’t. What sort of idea is that for a young lady? She will stay right here in England and do her duty.”

  Jack, ready to leave for Vega’s, slid his arms into his coat as Browne held it up. “Her duty does not include wedding me.”

  “But your duty is to wed her!”

  “No,” he said firmly. “It is not.” She opened her mouth to argue, and Jack held up one hand. “I vowed to Father that I would see that she was cared for. I have done that—she and her mother have always had a comfortable home, a well-stocked larder, the latest fashions. But she is grown now, with thoughts and ideas of her own, and she does not want to marry someone as old and boring as I.”

  “She is still a girl and will heed her mother’s guidance!”

  “No, she is a young woman who deserves a chance to choose her own husband.” He gave his mother a quelling look. “That is the end of the matter.”

  The duchess’s mouth pinched, and she closed her eyes for a moment. “You’re being hasty and rash, and it’s not like you, Ware. Throwing over Lucinda for a common cardsharp!” She nodded even as he shot her a dark glance. “Of course I heard about that foolish wager—of course I know you went off to Alwyn with her, and of course I know you’re still seeing her. You’ve been quite unlike yourself lately, and I have no illusions why. Men are the most predictable creatures on earth when it comes to their baser needs. But to bring that woman into this house would shame your father, your grandfather, and every other ancestor who knew his duty and treated marriage with the gravity it deserves.”

  He took his hat and gloves from Browne. “Good evening, Mother.”

  “You cannot ask me to receive that woman,” she pleaded. “A woman of no name, no connections, no character!”

  “That woman has a name, I don’t care about connections, and she has more fortitude and character than half of society put together.” He set the hat on his head as a footman swept open the door. “And if you don’t wish to receive her, have Percy take a new house for you. I expect to bring my bride home within a fortnight.” He ignored her gasp of shock and went out, down the steps and into the carriage waiting for him. He cast a glance at the opposite corner and remembered Sophie, indignant and flustered, badgering him from that seat. His pulse leaped and a slow smile crossed his face at the thought of what he’d do the next time he had her in the carriage with him.

  He strode through the door of Vega’s, hardly stopping to leave his coat and hat. Where was she? Tonight he didn’t care a fig for the promise Dashwood had extracted. After tonight, the only gossip that might accrue to Sophie’s name would be about her new place in society, as his wife. After tonight, Dashwood could ban him from Vega’s for life, and Jack wouldn’t give a damn.

  A brisk patrol of the club didn’t reveal Sophie, though. He frowned when he reached the main salon again, wondering if she’d stayed home this evening. He’d sent his carriage away, but he could hail a hackney, as he usually did when headed to Sophie’s house . . .

  “Here I am.” His brother stepped in front of him, arms open wide.

  “I’m not looking for you.”

  “No?” Philip affected surprise. “Was that not your sole purpose in joining the Vega Club?”

  Jack was beginning to envy Sophie her lack of family. “Philip, I am not in the mood for this.”

  “Oh.” His brother perked up. “Fancy a hand of cards, then? Fraser and Whitley would surely make up a table with us.”

  “No doubt,” he said dryly. Fergus Fraser never had two shillings to rub together, and Angus Whitley was Philip’s most useless friend. “Perhaps another time. I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who?” Philip fell in step beside him when he started to walk away. “I can help you locate him.”

  Jack gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Why are you so accommodating this evening?”

  “A renewed spirit of brotherly love.”

  “No, really, why?” Jack moved past the hazard table. No gleam of mahogany hair caught his eye.

  “Perhaps I’m keeping an eye on you tonight.”

  “What?” He could barely attend to what Philip said. Was she really not here? Surely she would have mentioned it last night, if she planned to stay home.

  “To keep you from any awkward situations with people who don’t desire your company.”

  He looked at his brother, perplexed, and finally took in Philip’s expression. “What are you talking about?”

  Philip’s gaze darted left, then right, and he lowered his voice. “Sophie knows about Lucinda.”

  “What?” A nearby table looked around at his sharp exclamation. Jack also lowered his voice. “There’s nothing to know!”

  Philip threw up his hands in protest. “She asked me. Whoever told her you were going to marry Lucinda, it was not I.”

  “And did you deny it?” he whispered harshly. “I am not engaged to Lucinda, I never was, and if you told her I am—God help me, Philip—”

  His brother put down his hands. “Deny it? When my own mother s
aid it was true? Ware, everyone believes you’ve been promised to Lucinda for years—”

  With a curse, Jack turned and stalked off. Philip dogged his heels, seeming to understand that their conversation was too public. As soon as they reached a quieter spot, Jack whirled on his brother. “I told you that was idle rumor, no matter what Mother wished,” he said between his teeth. “The mythical engagement was cooked up by her and Lady Stowe. No one even asked Lucinda her opinion, which turns out to be that she’d much rather traipse off to ancient Egypt than marry a dull old man such as I.”

  Philip grinned in delight. “She said that? I always liked Lucinda.”

  “And I’ll happily send you to Egypt, never to return, if you told Sophie I was marrying another woman.” Jack glared at him. “I’m in love with her, damn you. She said she loves me, too. If you have ruined this for me, Philip, if you have broken her heart by telling her rubbish . . . as God is my witness, you shall never draw another farthing from Ware, nor be welcome on any property I own.”

  “Love?” His brother goggled at him. “You—in love?”

  He stared at his brother, who had once looked up to him and trusted him, even when they were lads and Jack told him tall tales and scary stories. It was like a different person in front of him, someone who believed him capable of seducing one woman with false promises while betrothed to another woman. Someone who believed him incapable of any deeper feeling than distaste for large gaming debts. His own brother.

  He swore under his breath. This was a waste of time, scolding Philip when he should be looking for Sophie and assuring her it was all false, that the only truth between them was what he had told her last night: that he loved her and wanted to marry her. Sophie was all that mattered to him, not his mother’s disapproval and not his brother’s dislike. “Never mind.” He brushed past his brother, but Philip caught his arm.

  “Ware. Jack.”

  He paused, glaring icily at the hand on his sleeve. Philip released him and edged back a step. “I didn’t know.”

  “How could you, when you were sulking that I’d spoiled your bid to make her your mistress?”

  His brother flushed at his scathing derision. “For what it’s worth, I actually do care for her. When you carted her off, I’d no idea what you meant to do, and I worried for her.”

  Jack gave him a look of pure disdain. “You have an odd way of demonstrating your affection and concern.”

  “I might say the same,” retorted Philip. Jack jerked, and his brother took another step backward. “Do you really love her?”

  “Desperately.” He hesitated. “I asked her to marry me.”

  Philip exhaled. “I suppose she said yes.” Jack nodded once, unable to speak. His brother seemed to wilt for a moment, then he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “Since we’re both miserable at this, I guess we had better work together. One of us might as well be happy. Come, I’ll help you find her.”

  Chapter 27

  Sophie did not want to be alone.

  After Philip confirmed what Georgiana had seen, her first thought was to go home, climb into bed and pull the covers over her head, and stay there for the rest of the year. How could she have been so wrong about Jack—so foolishly, spectacularly wrong? How could he have lied and deceived her so brilliantly? Everything he did had been perfectly designed to work upon her weaknesses, dismantling her rules one by one until he smashed her world to bits. How long would he have continued telling her he loved her? she wondered numbly. How long would he have continued charming his way into her bed? She pressed one hand to her stomach and thought the real question was, how long would she have continued to believe him?

  But crawling into her bed would only remind her more of Jack, and how he had held her there and whispered that he loved her. She would only think of how his big body felt lying beside her, moving above her, and it would only make her misery more profound.

  The cure was to do something to keep her mind off him. When Sophie walked out of that small private room, her heart was in pieces but her resolve was back in place. She took a glass of wine from a waiter and surveyed the room before setting her sights on Anthony Hamilton, sitting by himself with a snifter in one hand.

  Mr. Hamilton was one of the more notorious gentlemen in society. He was heir to an earl, but refused to use his courtesy title. Rumor had connected his name with half the ladies of the ton, and it was a mystery to all why he hadn’t been called out over any of those affairs. He was enigmatic and reserved, the sort of man everyone seemed to talk about but no one spoke to.

  But most important for Sophie’s purposes, he gambled ruthlessly, and no amount was too dauntingly high for him. Her stomach fluttered as she made her way through the room toward him. She’d heard he had once wagered everything he owned, including the clothes on his back, at the hazard table—and won. Normally she avoided playing with people who could tolerate that kind of risk, but tonight she needed something to distract her. She would either win a great deal, salving the open wound on her soul, or she would lose a great deal, and have something more important to worry about than handsome, lying dukes.

  “Good evening, sir.” She swept a deep curtsy as Mr. Hamilton looked up, his dark brows lifted in surprise. He’d been watching the play at the nearby hazard table, a calculating look in his eyes.

  Now he rose. “Good evening, Mrs. Campbell.” They’d never been introduced, and her stomach fluttered again that he knew who she was.

  “I hope you will forgive my boldness,” she said with a bright smile, “but I was told you are by far the best piquet player in London.”

  He smiled. “Flattery, ma’am? Or condemnation?”

  She laughed. “Admiration! Is it true?”

  “I cannot possibly answer that. I’ve not played with everyone else in London.” He cocked his head slightly. “I’ve not played against you.”

  It was the opening she wanted. Her heart gave a hard thud of warning against her ribs. Sophie widened her smile and ignored it. “Perhaps you would care to remedy that?”

  He seemed amused. His mouth curled into a reluctant smile that never touched his eyes. “What stakes?”

  “Ten guineas a point.” Scoring in piquet could vary immensely. Sophie knew she was risking a thousand pounds, if not more.

  However, piquet had been Papa’s favorite game. When he lost, it was at other tables. Sophie could play piquet since she was a child. It was a complicated game of strategy and skill, not merely luck of the draw, and it would require her full attention—exactly what she desired. It also had the potential to pay a handsome reward.

  Mr. Hamilton held out one hand. “After you, madam.”

  She located a small table at the back of the room, sheltered from view by some of Vega’s famous palm plants. A servant brought a fresh deck of cards, and Sophie set aside her wine.

  She won the cut and elected to deal first. She shuffled the cards several times, mindful of Papa’s opinion that the cards weren’t completely unordered until they had been shuffled repeatedly. Mr. Hamilton watched with a hint of his amused smile. She dealt the hand, and they settled in to play.

  There were six hands played in a partie of piquet. After a bad beginning, she pulled almost even by the end of the fifth hand. She’d been right about him; playing against Mr. Hamilton required all her concentration. He played with the steeliest demeanor she had ever seen, despite lounging in his chair as if he hardly cared.

  She was preparing to deal the final hand when a footman glided up to Mr. Hamilton, leaned down and murmured something to him. He looked startled, then rose from his seat. “Mrs. Campbell, my apologies. I must step away for a moment.”

  “Of course.” She put down the deck. “Shall you return to finish the partie?”

  He hesitated. “I believe so.” He smiled briefly. “I hope so.” He gave a little bow and walked away.

  Sophie reached for her wine. She must either play much better in this final deal of the cards, or much worse. Her score hadn�
�t yet reached one hundred points, which meant her loss—if she must lose—would be less than if she played well enough to score one hundred but still lost. Sophie rarely played to lose, but sometimes it was the right tactic. She was contemplating her odds when Mr. Hamilton pulled out his chair.

  “Good evening,” said the wrong voice.

  She jerked upright in her chair. It was not Mr. Hamilton who had returned, but the man she’d spent all evening trying to forget. Perfectly attired in evening clothes, he was as blindingly handsome as ever. Her throat closed up as he smiled at her, so damnably, appealingly rueful, when she knew he was the worst sort of liar.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Jack added.

  She swept one hand in a mock salute. “Here I am. What do you want?”

  “To speak to you. Sophie—”

  “Don’t,” she snapped. “I don’t want to see you tonight, let alone speak to you.”

  Jack paused. “You deserve to be angry.”

  Any flicker of hope she had that there was some incredible misunderstanding died in a burst of flame. “You must pardon me, sir. I am already engaged at the moment,” she said acidly, hoping the double meaning of that word hit him in the head. “My companion will be returning soon, and I wish to continue my game of piquet with him.”

  “You mean Hamilton?” Jack leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table. His eyes were such a soft blue, she had to look away. “He won’t be back.”

  “What?” She looked past him in angry alarm. “Why not? What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing. Philip’s having a word with him.” He reached for the deck of cards in the center of the table. “Play a hand with me instead.” He glanced at her. “I was told it’s what people do here.”

  Her face felt hot. “Not with me.”

  “Why not?” He cut the cards and shuffled. “I’ve been practicing. I shan’t lose every hand this time.”

  She bared her teeth in a smile. “You know very well why not.”