My Once and Future Duke

by Caroline Linden

  She blew out a breath. “Yes, I really ought to have. But as you said, I was seduced by greed. The prospect of winning five thousand pounds in one stroke was too tempting to resist.”

  He tilted his glass in mocking salute. “A deadly sin.”

  She made a noise of rueful agreement. “Is Philip a terrible liar, then?”

  Jack gave her a cold look and said nothing.

  “Am I overstepping my place by asking that?” She sounded amused, incredibly. “You said he broke his word to you not to gamble. I see him all the time, you know. Mostly at Vega’s, but sometimes at the assembly rooms. If you think he’s losing all his money to me, you’re sadly misinformed.”

  “I never supposed that.” Jack thought of the bank draft he’d just written to Sir Lester Bagwell, and drank the last of his brandy. “How badly have you fleeced him, now that you bring it up?”

  She glared at him. Jack realized he’d been watching her and got up from his chair. He went to pour more brandy because one glass was clearly not going to be sufficient. On impulse he poured a glass of sherry as well and brought it to Mrs. Campbell.

  “Thank you,” she said in surprise. She tasted the wine, and her eyelashes fluttered closed in patent delight. She sipped again, and her lips glistened wet with sherry.

  Jack stared. God, her mouth. He resumed his seat, eyes trained on her. He was damn near bewitched by everything she did. When she opened her eyes again, he made himself look away from her bare ankle and her shining hair and most of all her mouth.

  “A few hundred pounds at most,” she said in belated answer to his question. She tilted her head and faced him. “Not all at once, of course, and I do lose to him from time to time.”

  “But not often, I take it.”

  She swung her feet up onto the cushion, pulling her knees up under her chin. She took another sip of sherry before setting the glass down. “No, not often. He plays recklessly.”

  “How so?”

  The firelight flickered on her face, giving her a pensive air. Jack tried not to notice that her bare toes were peeking out beneath the hem of his dressing gown. She’d kicked off the plain pair of slippers, which no doubt belonged to Mrs. Gibbon. It was completely unlike the vision he wanted to have of her as a scheming charlatan, angling to seduce her victims into ruin. It could be an elaborate play to persuade him of her innocence, but if so, it was the best Jack had ever seen.

  “He never plays the odds,” she said after a moment. “He always raises the stakes, even when he should not. And then . . . Well, there’s no other way to put it. He’s got dreadful luck.”

  “Not like you,” Jack murmured.

  Her smile was twisted. “His luck is nothing like mine.”

  There was an undercurrent in the words he couldn’t place. “Then that means he’s got no sense, either, if he persists in playing recklessly without even the veneer of good luck to carry him through.”

  “He persists because he doesn’t fear losing.” She rested her chin on her knees and smiled at his expression. “I presume that is due to you.”

  “Not as a general rule.”

  “The last resort is almost as reliable,” she said, unperturbed by his clipped response. “Especially if one knows it will always be there when needed. Gambling is about risk, you know, and a guarantee is rare.”

  He knew all that. In his younger days, before he was a duke, Jack had been fond of a good wager himself. Never dice, and rarely cards; his wagers had been more personal. Could he beat his mate Stuart Drake in a carriage race from London to Greenwich? Yes, he could, and win twenty guineas in the process. Could he bag more birds on the heath than the other gentlemen out shooting? Yes, he could, for another ten pounds. Could he win a dance with the prettiest girl in any assembly room they passed, without telling her his title—which, Aiden Montgomery had once alleged, was outright cheating? Yes, he could, and lighten every friend’s purse by another handful of guineas.

  But then he’d inherited and abruptly such frivolous pursuits were beneath him—not that he had time for them anyway. His father had expected to live to age ninety, not drown just shy of fifty. Jack had expected to live the carefree life of an heir, not inherit every responsibility before he turned thirty. Wagering on carriage races became a quaint, almost childish thing.

  “Is that what appeals to you?” he asked instead. “The risk?”

  She laughed, although without much humor. “Oh no. I prefer to think of it as the chance of winning rather than the risk of losing.”

  Of course. Jack tore his gaze away from her bare toes again. “Spoken like a true sharper.”

  “Which you believe me to be.” Another twisted smile.

  “Are you not?” he drawled. “You frequent a gaming hell and routinely relieve people such as my brother of large sums of money. You admit you were eager to relieve me of five thousand pounds.”

  “You proposed the wager,” she said, unrepentant. “I’d like very much to know why.”

  Hoist by his own petard. Jack drained his brandy and contemplated the empty glass. Two was enough. Any more and his wits—already lacking this evening—might desert him entirely and lead him to do something irretrievably stupid. Her bare toes tormented him. “Nothing but a useful device,” he murmured.

  “To separate me from Philip?” She scoffed. “If so, it was completely unnecessary. I already told you I didn’t wish to play hazard with him. He interrupted my evening and maneuvered me into the game. I know well enough to be wary of Philip.”

  He gave her a jaundiced look. She hadn’t looked wary at all in Vega’s, blowing kisses to the dice in Philip’s hand.

  “I do,” she insisted. “Contrary to what you may think, I don’t want to beggar anyone, and I don’t like watching my friends run themselves into ruin. I consider him a friend, but he’s become a bit overbearing lately. If you had simply drawn me aside and asked my help in getting him away from the gaming tables, I would have happily given it.” A trace of a mischievous smile touched her lips, and Jack’s stomach contracted involuntarily. “For far less than five thousand pounds, even.”

  She was tweaking him. “Philip fancies far more than friendship from you,” he replied, repaying the jab.

  Her face froze for a moment. But not in surprise; she knew Philip wanted her. He couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or not by that fact, though. It hit Jack that she was very good at hiding her feelings and emotions.

  But then in a flash she turned into a cooing society miss. Her eyes widened and a simpering smile crossed her lips. “Does he?” she said in a wondering tone. “Good heavens. I’ve never discovered a gentleman had warm feelings for me through his brother.” She gave him a breathless hopeful look. “Is he madly in love? Should I prepare myself for a proposal of marriage? Shall we soon be brother and sister, Your Grace?”

  God no. Jack barely kept his seat at the thought of this woman as his sister-in-law. She would run Philip in circles and he . . . he would end up in an early grave, watching her with his brother. “You’d be a fool to accept him, if he were to propose. He has no fortune of his own, and he wastes his income at the hazard tables.”

  She laughed merrily. Jack smiled before he could help it. “Your face! Did you think I meant it?” She shook her head, still smiling. “Of course I would never accept Philip, for matrimony or other entanglements. He’d make a terrible husband and I—”

  “Yes?” he prodded when she stopped short.

  She licked her lips. “I know he’s far above my touch,” she finished lightly. “The brother of the Duke of Ware! I would never dream of setting my cap at such an eligible gentleman.”

  That was not what she’d been about to say. Jack leaned forward to set down his glass, and used the chance to shift in his chair so he could see her better. “Some women would seize their chance to land such an eligible gentleman.”

  “Would they?” She smiled artlessly and raised one shoulder. “I suppose I’m not like most women.”

  Yes . . . but why
not? What was it about her that teased him and lured him, even when he knew he should be disapproving and disdainful? He had to clear his head about her. He had to clear his head of her. “I can see that,” he said evenly. “You gamble and freely admit you like to win, but then you say you don’t want to beggar anyone. A true gamester wouldn’t care. That makes me think you’re playing a different game. When I suggested Philip might want more than merely your company, though, you went to great lengths not just to deny it, but to mock the very idea. Too great, in my opinion—it was not a novel thought to you.

  “It could be you’re not prowling the gaming hells of London in search of a wealthy protector and find the thought offensive or demeaning, but you didn’t fly into outrage when I said it. You know he wants to bed you, and anyone watching how you flirted with him this evening would assume you are encouraging him. You’ve thought about what he would be like as a lover or even as a husband, yet claim to have rejected him on both counts. That leads me to suspect you are in fact playing for more than a few guineas at the hazard table, but Philip simply isn’t a plump enough target for you.” He tilted his head to one side. “Am I wrong?”

  She had sat up straighter during his speech, returning her feet to the floor. Now she was staring at him, her lips parted, her eyes dark. “Put a lot of thought into it, have you?”

  “Not much,” he returned. “I’d never heard of you before tonight.” He couldn’t stop his eyes from dropping to the dressing gown. It gaped open a little, revealing a tantalizing hint of bosom. His blood surged no matter how he tried to quell it. “But I recognize your kind.”

  For a moment he thought he’d finally rattled her. Her eyes flashed and she inhaled unevenly, but again she recovered. “Of course you would think so.” Her smile this time was forced. “Good night, Your Grace.” She rose and sank into a flawless curtsy, and the velvet banyan slipped open a little more. Now he could see the shadow between her breasts.

  His mouth dried up. Nothing. She wore nothing beneath it. Mrs. Campbell regally flipped the hem of the banyan out of her way—her legs were bare all the way up, curse it all—stepped into the slippers and walked out of the room without another glance at him.

  And even though Jack suspected he’d scored a direct hit with his last remark, all he could think about was her bare feet.

  Chapter 7

  Jack stood at the window in the breakfast room the following morning, coffee cup in hand, watching the rain continue to pound down on the garden outside.

  It had been raining, off and on, for the better part of a week in Chiswick, Wilson had informed him. Closed up in his London house, Jack hadn’t really noticed. He went out from time to time, but as a general rule the world came to him, bowing and scraping and always wanting something. If the weather was fine, he rode in the morning, but he was only now realizing he hadn’t done that in a few days. It must have been because of rain.

  If not for Philip, he’d be in the house near St. James’s Place now, skimming the freshly ironed newspapers over breakfast before returning to his study to confront the never-ending onslaught of petitions, bills, reports, requests and straight-up demands from all over England. By now the morning room usually held three or four people whose business was so important to them they didn’t trust it to the post. His mother would drift across his path at some point, usually to offer a hint about something she wanted or a reproach on some matter where she thought he had done differently than his father would have done. On rare days one of his old mates might call, but it had been so long since Jack went out with them, they had mostly stopped bothering. Before he knew it, it would be dinnertime, and then any evening events he couldn’t avoid.

  But today, there was none of that. Without notice of his arrival, Wilson had not made arrangements to have the London newspapers sent in, and Percy, his secretary, was still in town with all the work. His father had warned him never to trust any employee too much, but perhaps it was time to see what Percy could do on his own. In fact, Percy and the duchess wouldn’t even know for certain where he was until he sent word. It was as if he were back at university, skipping out on lessons to do something—anything—more exciting, even if that something happened to be nothing at all. Jack raised his cup and sipped the coffee, savoring the feeling.

  The door opened behind him. “Your Grace,” said Wilson.

  “Yes?”

  “The men have returned with the carriage. They report that the axle is cracked and will take several days to repair.”

  That was no surprise. “And the roads?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Quite impassable, sir. It took six men and four horses to free the carriage and bring it to Alwyn.”

  “I see. Tell them to do what they must to repair the axle. Are the horses we arrived with unhurt?”

  “One of them picked up a stone, Your Grace, but the groom is tending to him.”

  Jack gave a nod. “That will be all, Wilson.”

  “Yes, sir.” The door clicked softly closed behind the butler.

  Alwyn House was set in a large landscaped park. There were other vehicles on the property, but only ones meant for short distances. With the roads a mess and the coach unable to be driven, he was stuck at Chiswick.

  Or rather, they were stuck.

  As if on cue, the door opened again. Even before she spoke, Jack knew it was Mrs. Campbell. Not only did the air seem to develop a subtle hum, he could see her reflection in the window before him.

  “Good morning.”

  He noticed she didn’t refer much to his title. There was no deference in her demeanor, either. Jack had grown accustomed to both behaviors in the last seven years; even before his father’s death, he’d been styled the Earl of Lindsay and treated accordingly. This woman, though, treated him as if they were equals.

  Actually, she treated him as if he were slightly inferior. It was both intriguing and maddening.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Campbell.” He turned and watched her cross the room to the sideboard. She walked like a dancer, graceful and light on her feet. She lifted the lids on a few dishes, clearly intending to serve herself, and Jack made a motion to the footman who stood guard over the sideboard. The servant slipped from the room without a word, leaving them alone.

  “I see they located something for you to wear,” he said.

  She selected some toast and a muffin and added an egg, then brought her plate to the table and sat down. “Yes. This stylish ensemble belonged to a former housemaid who left rather abruptly last spring. Mrs. Gibbon apologized profusely for it, but it is clean and dry and fits tolerably well. I am hardly in a position to refuse anything that satisfies those requirements.” She smoothed one hand over the plain, dark blue bodice. “Livery, I presume?”

  He jerked his gaze away from her hand, still poised very near the shadowy cleft between her breasts. It was a housemaid’s dress, but she’d left off the customary kerchief the maids wore tucked into their bodices, and as a result her bosom was perfectly visible. “Yes.”

  “Very fine wear for livery.”

  “Is it?” He lifted his shoulder. “I didn’t select it.”

  “Ah.” She spread jam on her toast. “Far too mundane a task for a duke.”

  “Yes.” There was no point disputing that.

  She looked up at him as she ate. He stood on the far side of the table from her, and the light from the windows—such as it was—fell on her face. “I saw Wilson, your butler, in the corridor. He says the carriage has been retrieved from the road.”

  “It has been.” Jack returned to his chair and reached for the coffeepot. “Unfortunately, with its axle broken. It will take a few days to repair it.”

  She stopped chewing for a moment, her eyes widening. Her gaze drifted away to the windows, no doubt observing the rain rolling down the panes. She finished her bite of toast, wiped her mouth delicately, and finally glanced at him again. “We’re trapped here?”

  “A rather ominous characterization. The roads are a mes
s, and it would be a dreadful ride back to London in the pony cart or gig that are kept in the stables.”

  For a long moment she said nothing. He looked up to see she was watching him, a thin crease of bemusement between her brows. She really had the most beautiful eyes, clear and intelligent and frank. And right now she was looking at him as if he were an idiot. His temper rose a little; the weather was not his fault.

  “Does it even matter?” he said to goad her. “You did wager a week.”

  Her knife clattered to the plate. “That bloody wager! You proposed it. Was this what you had in mind?”

  Jack opened his mouth to reply, then realized he had no answer. “To be perfectly honest, I fully expected to lose.”

  Her lips parted in astonishment. “Well—I fully expected to win!”

  Against his will he smiled. “Serves us both right.”

  She made a derisive noise, almost a snort, and rolled her eyes. “Given that neither one of us wanted this, shall we brave the elements and attempt a return to London? It will mitigate the damage for both of us.”

  I never said I didn’t want it. Jack shifted in his chair. “No. That would be foolish, and almost surely end in failure.”

  Pique flashed across her face. She jumped up and went to the sideboard to prepare herself a cup of tea. When she came back, her determinedly pleasant expression was back in place. “Then what are we to do, since we’re marooned here?”

  And that was the moment that Jack realized he was completely at leisure for the first time in years. Normally his visits to Alwyn House were planned, at least a few days in advance; his secretary and estate agent made the trip with him, as did the endless stream of work that was his lot in life. Even here in his private sanctuary he was usually kept busy for hours a day.

  But all of that was off in London, and even if it caught up to him tomorrow, it still meant today was devoid of responsibility. He leaned back in his chair, adjusting to the novelty of it. “I’ve no idea,” he murmured, almost in wonder.