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

by Caroline Linden

Sophie rolled her eyes as Eliza laughed. “You sound quite smitten with him yourself. Should we warn Lord Sterling?”

  “Of course not. Sterling’s got nothing to fear. I’ve been in love with him for ages,” said Georgiana with a flip of one hand. Viscount Sterling, whose property neighbored that of the Earl of Wakefield, had proposed to Georgiana as soon as she turned eighteen, and been happily accepted. Lord Wakefield had dithered and delayed the match, but everyone knew he was an eccentric fellow, and her engagement left Georgiana free to enjoy two Seasons in London, buying an endless wedding trousseau while Wakefield and Sterling argued about the settlements.

  “Perhaps that’s why you should leave Sophie in peace about him,” said Eliza gently. “You’ve found your hero so easily. Not all of us are as fortunate.”

  “Oh, but I want you to be!” cried Georgiana, contrite. She turned to Sophie. “Is Sir Thomas really that bad?”

  “No,” she lied with a smile. “He’s just not for me.” She hadn’t missed how Sterling thought the baronet would be a brilliant match for her. Sir Thomas, with his wandering hands and flexible sense of honor, would be utterly unacceptable as a husband for Lady Georgiana Lucas, even for the heiress Eliza Cross. But for Mrs. Sophie Campbell, a supposed widow of modest means who spent her evenings at a gaming club, he’d be a marvelous catch. Sophie was not unaware of her standing in society.

  “A younger son, then,” said Georgiana, undeterred. “Lord Philip Lindeville.”

  “Who? No!”

  “You must remember him, Sophie. You’ve been seen with him several times in the last month,” said Georgiana somberly. “Sterling says he’s a great fellow, and he’s devilishly handsome.”

  “Papa says he’s a rake,” reported Eliza.

  “In need of reform through true love.” Georgiana winked at her.

  Sophie laughed. “Far too much trouble for me, I’m sure.”

  Eliza looked shocked, and Georgiana snorted in amusement. “Only you would view a suitor as trouble, Sophie!”

  “Lord Philip,” she had replied, “is not a suitor.”

  For some reason that conversation stuck in her mind as she reached Vega’s that night. It was a cool and cloudy evening, with passing sprinkles of rain, and she wore her crimson gown, not for luck but for cheer; the bright cotton was her favorite. When Mr. Forbes, the club manager, carried away her cloak, she caught sight of herself in the mirror above the fireplace. She didn’t feel old, but at twenty-­four, neither was she young. She didn’t want to turn up her nose at mention of a suitor. Sophie wouldn’t mind at all finding a gentleman who would fall in love with her and win her love in turn. If only the men she met were interested in the same thing.

  Assuming she kept winning at about the same rate, it would take her another six years to reach ten thousand pounds, the amount she’d decided meant financial security. Six years plus ten thousand pounds equaled independence. That was the equation she should keep in mind, or she’d find herself at the mercy of lecherous baronets who weren’t even as handsome as Sir Thomas Mayfield. She squared her shoulders and strolled into the salon. It didn’t take long to find a table of partners, and she took a seat with a confident smile.

  At least an hour passed. She lost a little at first but then made up for it. She was ahead sixty pounds when someone exclaimed behind her, “Mrs. Campbell!”

  Sophie started. She and her partner, Giles Carter, were happily trouncing Mr. Whitley and Mr. Fraser in a game of whist. Whist was not only perfectly acceptable for a lady to play, it was an easy game to win when one paid attention and didn’t drink too much. Mr. Whitley wasn’t paying enough attention, and Mr. Fraser was on his third glass of madeira. Lord Philip Lindeville’s delighted greeting interrupted a winning streak of six tricks.

  “What a pleasure to encounter you here.” He gave her a neat little bow.

  “And you, sir.” She smiled and inclined her head. Her friends’ teasing about Lord Philip wasn’t all wrong; he was one of her frequent companions. He was charming and amusing even though he was a little too sure of his own charm. Sophie had meant what she said when she called him trouble—­as a suitor.

  “Won’t you play a turn with me?” He grinned and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I vowed not to come tonight, but the chance of seeing you again was too tempting.”

  “I wouldn’t want to tempt any man to break his vows,” she said with a teasing smile.

  He laughed. “It was a foolish vow! Come, you shall probably beat me, and that will be my penance.”

  “Oh, but we’re playing here,” she tried to point out, but Lord Philip had already exchanged a glance with his friend Mr. Whitley.

  That gentleman promptly pushed back his chair. “Time for me to retire. You’ve routed me thoroughly, ma’am.” He bowed, and Mr. Fraser followed suit. Mr. Carter, her partner, hesitated, but Sophie knew when Philip was determined and would not be thwarted.

  She tamped down her irritation and laid down her cards. “Mr. Carter, I hope you will play with me again. I do believe we are an indomitable team at whist.” As hoped, his face eased and he even wished her luck as Lord Philip tugged her away.

  “I was engaged in a game,” she reproached him as he tucked her hand around his arm. “Patience is a virtue, my lord.”

  Philip grinned. “No wonder I haven’t any! I only came to speak to Dashwood, but then caught sight of you and utterly forgot my mission there.”

  “Should I be flattered?” The only reason to see Mr. Dashwood, the Vega Club owner, was to vouch for a new member or to see to a gambling debt—­a large one. Twice Sophie had had the good fortune to be on the winning end of a wager significant enough that Mr. Dashwood had stepped in to oversee payment. Somehow she doubted Philip would have been so easily distracted if he’d come to collect winnings.

  He looked down at her. His dark hair fell in romantic waves over his forehead, and a rakish smile tilted his mouth. “Yes. You should be very flattered. Tell me you are, and I shall be flattered as well.”

  He was so handsome and charming, it was a pity she would have to discourage his increasingly obvious interest. She pressed his arm. “Flattery is lightly given and so easily repaid.”

  “Not lightly given,” he returned. “And please do repay it.”

  She laughed. “I see you’re feeling lucky tonight. Shall it be hazard, then?” Hazard was quick. A few games and she would shed him, no matter what he said or did. Lord Philip had been growing too attentive of late.

  It was unfortunate, that; unknown to almost everyone in the world, she was keeping an eye out for a husband, and it would have been very convenient if he’d been acceptable. Georgiana, for one, would have been so proud of her for snaring a duke’s brother.

  But as much as she liked him, Lord Philip Lindeville was most assuredly not cut out to be a husband—­at least not hers. During her three years in London, Sophie had honed some very specific matrimonial requirements, and Philip barely met any. He was charming, but reckless; he was good-­natured, but cocksure; he was almost sinfully attractive, from his wavy dark hair to his tall, lean form, but he was far too aware of that fact, as was every other woman in town. And even worse, what made him so appealing as a partner at Vega’s—­his utter indifference to losing money—­was the very thing that made him utterly unacceptable as a husband. Sophie had no desire to marry a man who would gamble away their future. So despite his impeccable connections and unmistakable interest in her, she would have to turn him off.

  Giles Carter followed them to the hazard table. She gave him a rueful glance as Philip called for dice. Mr. Carter was much more in line with her object. He was at least a dozen years older than she, but possessed of his own independent income. Philip, she knew, was largely dependent on an allowance from his brother, an income he thought insufficient for a bachelor, let alone a married man. Mr. Carter knew when to quit the tables, although of late he h
ad played longer than was prudent . . . at least with her. Sophie hoped that was a good sign. He always lost with excellent grace, and seemed almost chagrined when he won. Mr. Carter would make an excellent husband, being neither cruel nor miserly nor ugly.

  However, any hope of that would be irreparably scotched if she allowed Philip to tempt her across the line of respectability. Sophie knew she was clinging to the edge of it now, and she was determined not to slip off. She wasn’t above flirting with gentlemen while she won their money, but never to the point of letting them think she wanted an affair.

  “What shall we play for?” Philip held out the dice, his dark eyes gleaming at her.

  “A guinea per round?”

  He pulled a disappointed face as he dropped a handful of markers on the table, belying his claim that he’d only come to speak to Dashwood. “Oh. Money.”

  She made herself laugh lightly, aware of Mr. Carter at her other side. “What else?” Before he could answer, she turned to the table. “Seven,” she announced, tossing the dice.

  Hazard was a game of chance. A player called his main, from five to nine, and then rolled the dice. If the sum of his roll equaled his main, he had nicked it, and won the pot. If he rolled a two or three, he had thrown out, and lost. The rules got complicated beyond that, with rolls of eleven or twelve being generally losing turns, but often a player had an opportunity to roll again and again, until he lost three in succession and was forced to yield the dice.

  It took her three throws to win. Lord Philip applauded. “A fine start!” He always lost so easily, as if he didn’t care about the money, and he quickly racked up two losses in two rolls. A flash of pique crossed his face but only for a moment. He took up the dice and rattled them for several seconds in his palm.

  Years ago at Mrs. Upton’s, Sophie had figured the odds in hazard, burning her candle to a stub as she filled the back of her mathematics primer with calculations. After the headmistress’s stern words, she never dared gamble with other girls at the academy, but the boys in the stables were another matter. She’d learned many card games from her father, but in the stables she learned dicing as well. She knew the odds of every play and throw. She learned when to be cautious and when to risk it all, and thus far she had employed these tactics splendidly—­to whit, a saved sum of four thousand pounds, amassed slowly and painstakingly over three years in London, thanks mainly to the Vega Club.

  Still, hazard was a fool’s game . . . except against Lord Philip.

  He never calculated anything. If he rolled too high in one turn, he called a higher main; if he rolled too low, he called a lower one. He would improve his lot considerably if he simply played the odds, as Sophie always did. She didn’t like taking advantage of him, but tonight she was a little annoyed he had broken up her game with Mr. Carter. If she won a good sum, he’d leave her be. Some nights people practically insisted she take their money.

  Giving her a sly smile, Philip rolled again and didn’t lose. His eyes grew bright with triumph, even though he hadn’t won yet. He dropped another marker onto his stake and played again.

  A small crowd gathered around them, with whispered side bets flying around behind her. Sophie kept her demeanor poised and easy, watching her opponent’s play. He was on the road to ruin, she thought. It was unfortunate but undeniable. Every toss of the dice exhilarated him too much. He raised his stake every time he didn’t throw out.

  In the end, it was a rather impressive eight throws before the fatal nine came. A little cheer went up as Lord Philip put back his head and groaned. He scooped up the markers and presented them to her. “Play another with me.”

  “You shouldn’t,” she tried to say, feeling a twinge of conscience, but he leaned closer and winked.

  “One more? Be sporting.”

  She hesitated. Philip would probably remain here all night, from the looks of things. If she didn’t win his money, someone else would. Perhaps after another round she could persuade him to try something less ruinous. “I’ll play one more—­but only one more . . .”

  “She’ll win one more, she means,” said someone nearby, to laughter.

  Lord Philip shot the fellow a peeved look as he collected the dice. “If I must lose, at least I’m losing to the most beautiful woman in London.” He offered her the dice with an extravagant bow, ever the flirt.

  Sophie also knew how to play to the crowd. This time she kissed the dice before she rolled them, and this time she nicked it—­winning on the first roll, earning a huzzah from the crowd. She offered the dice to Philip. “Your cast, my lord.”

  His eyes were fixed on her in unblinking fascination, his lips slightly parted in awe. “Kiss them for me,” he said, his voice dropping a register. “For luck.”

  From the corner of her eye, Sophie could see Giles Carter watching, expressionless. Drat. Philip was becoming a problem; she would have to start actively avoiding him. “Since you are in dire need of it . . .” She blew a kiss toward the dice. “Bonne chance, my lord.”

  “Stop this instant!”

  Chapter 3

  The hard, flat words cut through the air like a sword, startling Sophie so she nearly dropped the dice. Lord Philip released her as if burned, thrusting his hand behind his back. “Wait,” he said, suddenly sounding young and nervous. “I can explain—­”

  “Stop, damn you,” repeated the man who had interrupted, still hidden from her view by the crowd. He was furious. Good Lord, was there about to be a duel over the hazard table? Sophie sent a wary glance at Giles Carter; what should she do?

  Mr. Carter stepped forward as the onlookers parted to allow the newcomer through. Comforted to have someone supporting her—­Philip had retreated another step and wore a tense, uneasy expression—­she stared with interest at the newcomer. Something about his face was familiar, and when Sophie glanced again at Lord Philip, she realized the two must be related.

  Of course. Her shoulders relaxed. Philip had mentioned him. This was the duke, the dour elder brother who controlled Philip’s allowance and scolded him for losing at the gambling tables. Philip had called him boring and dried-­up, and said he spent all his days reading ledgers, and Sophie discovered she had unconsciously formed an image of the brother as far older and far less attractive.

  She could not have been more wrong.

  He was tall, golden-­haired and austere in dark evening clothes. His face might have been carved by Michelangelo, so beautiful was it. Philip was of a similar height, but rangy; the duke’s perfectly fitted evening clothes showed off broad shoulders, lean hips and well-­shaped calves. If he were more than five years older than Philip, it would be a shock.

  But there was no warmth at all in his blue-­gray eyes as they flicked over her, a thorough but dismissive examination that made her feel very small and insignificant. He stopped in front of them, his attention on his brother. “Well?” he demanded, his voice low but hard.

  Philip’s jaw set but he smiled. “Fancy seeing you here. Have you come to play a round?”

  The duke’s eyes flickered toward Sophie again. “That was not my plan, no. Nor did I believe it to be yours.”

  She glanced from side to side beneath her lashes, but she was stuck. With the fascinated onlookers close behind her, Philip by her side and the duke in front of her, there was no easy avenue of escape.

  “It was not.” Philip’s expression grew defiant. “But I spied my dear friend Mrs. Campbell, and all my sense and intentions blew away like a puff of smoke. I was helpless to resist. Can you blame me?” He caught her hand and swept it to his lips.

  Sophie flushed; how dare he blame her? “My lord,” she murmured, tugging against his grip. “It grows late. We must finish our game another time.” She put the dice on the table and bobbed a curtsy.

  “Perhaps that would be best.” Philip gave her a rueful smile, although with an air of intimacy she would have rather avoided, and released he
r. “Until another evening, my dear.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said the duke. “That won’t do at all.”

  “Oh?” Philip smirked. “Then you must excuse us, Ware—­”

  “I meant you shall not finish your game another time,” snapped his brother. “Not with her, not with anyone. You’re done, Philip. I’ve no more patience for these antics.”

  “Antics?” Sophie repeated in spite of her determination to stay out of it.

  “I’m not a child, Your Grace,” spat Philip at the same moment.

  “If not, then you’re a fool,” replied the duke coolly. “A child may be reasonably expected to grow up and become a man of sense and dignity.”

  Philip flushed deep scarlet. “Ware,” he said between clenched teeth. “Stop.”

  “Stop. The very thing I said to you, the very thing you promised to do,” the duke said, every word as sharp as polished steel. “A month, you swore, away from the tables and the races. And yet here you are, the same night that vow was made. What is your explanation?”

  “I only came to see Dashwood,” muttered Philip. The crowd had withdrawn, but the room was quiet enough that people could hear their conversation. Giles Carter had slipped away and was nowhere to be seen.

  “I came to see Dashwood,” snapped the duke. “You came to wager away more money you don’t have.” He glanced at Sophie, this time with open disdain. “I see how firm your resolve is, if you’re ready to be fleeced again by the first woman who smiles at you.”

  So Philip had promised to stop gambling and broken his word. Privately Sophie sympathized with the duke’s anger; she’d already thought Philip shouldn’t be at the tables, and if his brother had been even a tiny bit kinder about it, she would have added her own voice to his and urged Philip to moderate his behavior.

  But she refused to be blamed and castigated as the cause of anyone’s profligacy. “Let he among us who is without sin lob the first stone,” she said lightly. “No doubt we all should contemplate our failings, but surely arguing them in public aids no one.”