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

by Caroline Linden

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The man ducked his head and motioned to the footman to come help.

  Jack turned to Mrs. Campbell. “If you’re mad enough to walk, I shall have to walk, too.”

  She looked distinctly unimpressed. “Please don’t feel obliged.”

  “You have no idea where the house is, nor is the housekeeper expecting you.” He finished doing the buttons on his coat and pulled his hat lower on his forehead. This would be a miserable walk for him; Mrs. Campbell, in her gown and slippers, was going to be wretched. Of course, she had chosen to do it against his advice. “Shall we?”

  They started off, heads bowed against the rain. It must have been raining here longer than in London. The road was a swamp of mud, and every apparent bit of solid footing turned out to be a puddle, lurking like a Charybdis in wait for a careless step. Jack forged into the lead, both to show the way and to block the wind. It also kept her out of his view, which made the rain in his face worthwhile. Penance, he told himself as water found a way down the back of his collar. He deserved this for being such an idiot tonight, and he began to feel guilty that he’d dragged Mrs. Campbell into it.

  But the woman with him never complained. She didn’t speak as they trudged down the road, and every time he stole a glance backward, her gaze was focused downward, minding her steps. Her cloak hung in sodden folds; it was a pretty evening cloak, not a thick one. It couldn’t offer much protection, but on the other hand it wouldn’t be as heavy when wet.

  The rain pounded down without pause. He concentrated on not losing his balance and falling flat on his face in the mud, a humiliation he was determined to avoid.

  At long last the wrought-­iron gates appeared. He turned in, trusting Mrs. Campbell had enough self-­preservation to follow, and heaved a sigh of relief when he stepped onto the gravel drive. It was spotted with puddles but far firmer than the muddy road. The rain still beat steadily on his head and shoulders, but the imminent prospect of a hot bath and a glass of brandy cheered him immensely. His steps quickened.

  A tug at his elbow made him look down. Mrs. Campbell gripped his coat sleeve, her wide-­eyed gaze fixed on the house ahead of them. “That is your house?”

  Jack nodded once. “Blessedly, it is.”

  She blinked several times. Raindrops clung to her long eyelashes and ran down the curve of her cheek. Her cloak gaped open at her throat, and his eyes skimmed down the expanse of pale wet skin. She was soaked. So was he, but suddenly Jack didn’t feel it at all. Suddenly it wasn’t his own bath that transfixed his mind, but hers—­her, in the bath, her hair curling in the steam and her skin flushed pink everywhere . . .

  God almighty. He tore his eyes from her and looked at Alwyn. It was a little jewel of a house, built by his great-­grandfather in the style of a French château, though on a far smaller scale. As always, his mood improved merely at the prospect of a few days here. “Have you some objection to it?”

  She blinked again and released his sleeve. “None at all, if it is warm and dry.”

  “Good.” Without waiting for her, he strode on.

  It took a few minutes of pounding on the door to raise a response. Jack hammered the knocker, aware of his companion standing dripping wet behind him.

  “Is anyone here?” Mrs. Campbell finally asked.

  “Yes. Always.” Jack thumped on the door again. “But we’re not expected.”

  “I gathered,” she said sourly. “A spur-­of-­the-­moment kidnapping.”

  “Stop saying that.” He glanced at her, irked. “You wanted a bit of adventure and you got some.”

  “I didn’t want it with you,” she shot back.

  “Let that be a lesson to you, then. Don’t make wagers you don’t wish to honor.” His ears caught the scrape of the bolt, and he stepped back as the door opened.

  The butler stared disdainfully at them through the narrow opening. “Who is there?”

  “Ware.” Jack removed his hat, ignoring the rain. “Open the door, Wilson.”

  The butler’s eyes nearly popped from his head. He threw the door open wide and bowed deeply. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. We received no notice of your visit—­”

  “I know.” Jack brushed past him. The house, per his instructions, was kept almost at full readiness. Alwyn was his retreat from London, where he could slip away from the relentless pressures of the dukedom for a few days. It wasn’t a total escape, as most of the work followed him, but here it was quiet and peaceful. His mother hated the house, it being too far from the society of London, and Philip found it old-­fashioned, so he always had it to himself.

  Except tonight, obviously. In the middle of unbuttoning his coat, he glanced back to see Mrs. Campbell hesitating on the doorstep. “Come in,” he told her. “Unless you’ve taken a liking to the rain.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her lush mouth twitched in irritation, but she came inside, allowing Wilson to shut the door behind her.

  Jack turned at the patter of footsteps. The housekeeper was all but running down the stairs. “Your Grace,” she said breathlessly, making a hasty curtsy. “We didn’t expect you—­”

  “I know, Mrs. Gibbon,” he assured her. “It was a decision made on the spur of the moment.” He avoided Mrs. Campbell’s gaze as he repeated her words, and shed his greatcoat into Wilson’s waiting hands. “This is Mrs. Campbell. Draw a hot bath and prepare a room for her. Are you hungry?” He swung around to address his guest.

  She looked dazed. There were still raindrops clinging to her eyelashes. “Er—­No. Tea would be lovely, though . . .”

  “Very good. Mrs. Gibbon, I leave her to your capable care.” Jack headed through the door for the stairs. His boots squelched at every step, and he was fiendishly anxious to pry them off.

  “Sir!” He stopped at Mrs. Campbell’s cry. One foot already on the stairs, he looked back.

  She had removed her cloak. As expected, her scarlet gown was drenched and clung to her body from her shoulders to her knees. The outlines of her stays were visible beneath the wet gown, and Jack imagined he could see her nipples, hard and erect. He imagined unlacing that dress and peeling it down, tasting every dewy wet inch of her skin. He imagined drawing her down with him into the large copper tub that was surely being set up even now in his dressing room, and his breath shuddered.

  God help him. He was worse than Philip.

  “Yes?” he said curtly, fighting the reaction of his body to the unwanted images running through his brain.

  “What . . . ?” She made a helpless motion with one hand. “What am I to do?”

  Strip off that wet dress. Let down your hair. Smile at me the way you did at Philip.

  “Get warm and dry,” he said. “After that . . . we shall talk.” And nothing else, by God. He turned and went up the stairs.

  Chapter 6

  Sophie barely restrained herself from saying something very rude to the duke’s retreating back. He was insufferable.

  The housekeeper was waiting, trying to conceal her rabid curiosity. The butler took her sopping wet cloak and quietly slipped away. She gathered herself. “Good evening,” she said to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Gibbon, is it?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Sophie plucked at her wet skirt. The bright crimson cotton had been one of her favorites, and now it was surely ruined, spattered with mud up to her knees. “The carriage got stuck on the road, nigh on a mile away. I imagine it’s been raining all day?”

  “Since yesterday, ma’am.” Mrs. Gibbon hesitated, then asked incredulously, “Did you walk a mile?”

  “Oh yes,” Sophie said. “There was no choice. It was rather hard going at times, I must say.”

  The woman’s face softened. “With His Grace you were perfectly safe, although it must have been miserable! This way, madam. We’ll get you warm and dry.” She led the way up the stairs.

  “I’m so sorry for
the extra work it must put you to,” Sophie said as they climbed the broad stairs of polished wood. She tried not to think of the wet footprints she was leaving on them for some hapless servant to wipe clean.

  “Have no worry on that score,” the woman assured her. “His Grace always leaves proper orders for the house.”

  Sophie took another look around her. Everyone kept calling it a house, as if it compared to the narrow brick home she had in Alfred Street. This looked far more like a mansion to her, even more so inside than out. The walls were robin’s-­egg blue, and parquet floors gleamed in the glow of the housekeeper’s lamp. She glanced up and gasped quietly at the high arched ceiling that shone with gold leaf even in the low light.

  At the top of the stairs Mrs. Gibbon led her down a corridor into a room that looked sumptuous in the shadows. “I beg your pardon that it’s not been prepared, but the maid will be in directly.” She pulled the bell rope, then hurried through the room and opened another door, revealing a cozy dressing room, tiled before the fireplace. A large copper tub sat at the back. “It will take a good while to draw a hot bath, but you’ve got to get out of those wet clothes.” She sized up Sophie, who was beginning to shiver in the cool room. “After that . . . Well, we’ll see what we can do.”

  By the time Sophie had shed her sodden dress and undergarments and was wrapped in a number of blankets, two other servants had arrived, one of them bearing a cup of tea. Sophie sipped and watched as they started the fire already laid in the hearth, arranged the copper tub and conferred with Mrs. Gibbon in low voices. Someone took her clothing, promising to make an effort to save it.

  When the tub was filled with steaming water, she sank into it gratefully. At home she had only her maid, Colleen, and a cook who came in every other day. It was lovely to have a throng of people look after her, although she still felt the duke owed her that much at least, after upending her evening so arrogantly.

  The duke. She slid down until the water covered her to the chin, with only her knees sticking out. What was she to make of the duke?

  Philip claimed he’d gone to the club to see Mr. Dashwood, and he’d startled like a guilty boy when his brother appeared. Mr. Dashwood had said the duke was not a member, and the duke himself had told Philip he wouldn’t pay any more gambling debts. Therefore the duke must have been at Vega’s to settle Philip’s debt. Sophie could understand the duke’s anger, if things were as he said.

  But why the devil had he turned on her? She certainly hadn’t held the debt from Philip, although heaven knew it wouldn’t have been difficult. For all she—­or the duke—­knew, Philip was still at Vega’s, wagering madly since he knew his brother was nowhere nearby to stop him.

  And now she was stuck here, far from London, with a man she did not know or like. Rain still pattered against the windows, and it would take at least a day of dry weather for the roads to become passable. Sophie had spent the carriage ride thinking rude thoughts about the duke, which was terribly cathartic, but now it was time to address the more practical question of how she should handle him. If only Philip had told her more about him. If only she had been curious to know more.

  She swirled her fingers through the water. He was younger than expected, surely not more than thirty-­five, which meant he had inherited when he was a young man. What might that do to a person? She wondered how different his upbringing had been from Philip’s; they appeared nothing alike, based on her limited observation.

  In the end she decided it was a mistake to assume too much either way. She ought to focus on their area of agreement, which was that she would not gamble with Philip anymore, ever. If she proved herself understanding, discreet, and trustworthy, he would be far more likely to send her back to town in the morning.

  And it was vital that she return to London as soon as possible. Despite Mr. Dashwood’s rule against gossip, this story would leak out. Sophie was well aware of what would happen when it did. If there were rumors that she had made a scandalous wager to spend a week with the Duke of Ware, bolstered by whispers that he swept her away from Vega’s that very night, and then she wasn’t seen anywhere in London for a week, she would lose her last shred of respectability. Everyone would think her the duke’s mistress, and that would destroy any chance she had of finding a decent husband. Sophie refused to let that man ruin her life so carelessly.

  Her mind made up, she got out of the tub. Mrs. Gibbon had left plenty of warm towels for her, and she went into the other room—­now brightly lit and warmed by a roaring fire in the hearth—­feeling revitalized.

  Her determination took a blow, however, when the housekeeper said she had been unable to locate any suitable clothing. The only females in the house were two maids, the cook and Mrs. Gibbon herself, none of whom were close to Sophie’s size. “We’re searching for something suitable,” the housekeeper promised, “but I’ve located something for tonight.” She laid a beautiful blue velvet banyan on the bed.

  Sophie stared at that dressing gown. “Whose is this?” But she knew.

  “His Grace’s,” said Mrs. Gibbon. “His man gave it to me when I asked what to do for you. By morning, I vow, I’ll have proper clothing.”

  She touched the plush fabric. It was lined with purple silk, so decadent she almost sighed with pleasure just from touching it.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” added the housekeeper. “I’ll fetch one of my own nightgowns for you. It’s the best I can do.”

  She started out of her reverie. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “It’s very kind of you.”

  The woman inclined her head in acknowledgment. “His Grace bid me tell you that he will see you in the library, if you wish to speak to him.”

  She certainly had plenty to say to the duke. It wasn’t ideal to face him down wearing his dressing gown, but he was responsible for that circumstance. She stroked the velvet again. “Thank you, Mrs. Gibbon. I will.”

  Jack felt greatly restored to sense once he was warm and dry again.

  He sent Michaels, the footman who attended him in the absence of his valet, to inform Mrs. Gibbon that he would be in the library, if his guest wished to speak to him, and then he sprawled in one of the comfortable leather chairs by the fire. Michaels brought a glass of brandy and left him to his thoughts.

  It was much easier to sort those thoughts out now that Sophie Campbell wasn’t in the room.

  First, and most important, he had done what needed to be done. Philip needed a shock to his system. It hadn’t been the most deft or diplomatic maneuver, Jack admitted, but one could never let that prevent seizing an opportunity when it arose.

  He rotated his glass and studied the firelight on the amber brandy. The key element of any strategy was always to know what someone else wanted. Philip had demonstrated that what he wanted, even more than the thrill of gambling, was Mrs. Campbell. The way he’d touched her and comforted her made that plain. Short of following him like a nursemaid, it would be impossible to keep Philip from wagering everywhere, which made this the only option with any significance. Jack didn’t fool himself it would cure his brother entirely of his bad habits, but it would make a strong impression on him.

  As for Mrs. Campbell herself . . . What business did a young and attractive woman have gambling every night at Vega’s? There were two likely answers, neither of them flattering. The first was that she was there for the same reason Philip and his mates were, to fritter away a fortune, either her own or someone else’s, in pursuit of idle entertainment. Jack felt no regret about his actions whatsoever if this were her motive. He didn’t care if she were the richest heiress in Britain; gambling was reckless and wasteful.

  The second possibility was that she was looking for something other than the thrill of winning. It hadn’t escaped his notice that while women might be admitted to Vega’s, not many there were as beautiful or as vivacious as she. Every man in the club had noticed her, in her scarlet dress with that lone
tormenting loose curl of dark hair. She could be playing for higher stakes than money. If her intent was to attract Philip as her wealthy lover, Jack would put an emphatic end to that fantasy. A woman like that could bleed a man dry even faster than the hazard table could.

  And if by some remote chance he was wrong, he could simply pay her the five thousand pounds after all. That was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?

  The door opened behind him, and he sipped his brandy, girding himself for a confrontation. He was not accustomed to apologizing for his actions. In this case, he didn’t even regret them. Had she been hideous or elderly, he would have acted just as decisively to keep her from ruining his brother—­not, perhaps, in the exact same manner, but just as forcefully. The fact that she was young and attractive only made her more dangerous.

  “I do hope you’ve made a better plan for getting back to London than you made for getting here.” She came around his chair toward the fire, and Jack almost dropped his drink as he got a look at her.

  Her hair tumbled down her back in loose waves, shining like polished mahogany in the firelight. But it was her clothing that threatened to strike him dumb. The long blue velvet dressing gown brushed the floor as she walked, and the sleeves had been folded back to expose her hands. She’d wrapped the belt around herself twice, emphasizing the slimness of her waist . . . and how beautifully curved the rest of her was. It was the most intimate of undress, even before his stunned brain registered one obvious point.

  “That’s my dressing gown,” he said.

  She gave him a saucy look and twitched the too-­long banyan around her legs. “It’s all they could find for me to wear. The housemaid nearest my size recently gave notice. The clothing of the other housemaids is too small, Mrs. Gibbon’s is far too large, and that left this.” She swept one hand over the velvet, lingering on the fabric. Jack’s eyes tracked her fingers, imagining the feel of the velvet . . . and the flesh beneath it. “Everything I have to wear is soaked and quite likely ruined, thanks to your lunatic desire to kidnap me from London in the middle of a torrential rainstorm.”