Jack turned and looked back; her hat lay forgotten in the trampled grass, a small gray spot in the green meadow. “Minerva follows wherever Maximillian leads. She’s quite besotted with him.”
“Oh?”
“See how she follows him. Leave your reins slack,” he directed, and nudged his horse back toward the hat.
“Unfair!” she cried as Minerva promptly followed.
He grinned. “Because she chooses to follow her heart?”
She rolled her eyes as he teased her with her own words. “Because all this time I’ve been feeling rather proud of myself for remembering how to ride, when she was merely following you.”
“How long has it been since you rode?” They had reached the hat. Jack swung down to the ground and scooped it up. It looked a little damp but otherwise unscathed.
“Oh, years. Keeping a horse costs far more than hiring a hackney.”
Maximillian was snuffling at Minerva in a friendly fashion. Jack had chosen this pair because of how well they got on together. “See?” he said, nodding at them. “True love.”
“I shall allow that to stand unchallenged, as it proves my greater point—true love is rare, but powerful.” She put out her hand for the hat.
“How do you know it’s rare?” He held on to the hat. He rather liked the way locks of hair had fallen loose around her face. It gave her a beautifully disheveled air, intimate and arresting. Of course, damn near everything about her was arresting his attention lately, making him crave ever more intimacy.
She wiggled her fingers in appeal. “How many marriages can you name based on true love?”
“Several,” he countered, stubbornly holding the hat.
Her brows arched. “But none in your family.”
Jack sighed and relinquished the hat. “By their choice.”
She took her time resettling the hat on her head, tucking away all those teasing wisps of hair. “I suppose that divides us, Your Grace,” she said at last, gathering her reins again. “I think it is rare, and I would not put duty or social advantage above it. Shall we ride on?” She nudged Minerva forward, leaving him standing in the field and wondering why he’d asked that question. Her opinions on love should not matter to him.
They rode for a while, tearing across the meadow several more times. It occurred to Jack that she hadn’t asked an obvious question: why couldn’t they ride back to London? The meadow wasn’t as rutted or flooded as the road, but it was remarkably solid, and with care it certainly seemed they could navigate the roads. Given the fresh newspapers lying on the breakfast table every morning, Jack expected Owens had been riding Maximillian to the nearest posting inn with regularity.
But she never asked, and he began to suspect she was enjoying herself. That suited him perfectly, because he was beginning to think a week was far too short a time to spend with her.
The skies were noticeably brighter by the time they returned to the stables, spattered with mud. Owens took the horses, and Jack offered her his arm as they started toward the house. She took it very naturally.
“Thank you,” she said. “For taking me riding.”
“It was my pleasure, Mrs. Campbell.” He was surprised by how true that was. By how much he had enjoyed every day with her, in fact.
“Do you know, I don’t think I’ve spent so much time exclusively with any one person since my parents died,” she remarked.
Jack thought of Percy, his secretary, who sat in his study for hours each day as they worked. Percy couldn’t count. “It’s unusual for me, as well.”
“One might also suppose we’ve come to be friends,” she said lightly.
Aside from the fact that he harbored some feelings toward her that one never applied to mere friends, Jack heartily agreed. “One might.”
She glanced sideways at him, as if she’d heard his unspoken caveat. “I don’t expect it will last once we leave. But perhaps . . . just for now . . . you might call me Sophie.” Jack stopped dead. She smiled and waved one hand airily. “I’ve grown tired of hearing ‘Mrs. Campbell,’ is all. If you find it objectionable, by all means—”
“No.” He put his hand over hers on his arm. “You mistake me . . . Sophie.”
Her smile turned brighter, almost too bright. “Very good . . . Ware.”
Jack knew that calling her by name breached some barrier from which there would be no going back. Friends, she said; it won’t last once we leave. That sounded like the first step on the road of temptation. Every inch of familiarity would lead to another, and another, and another, because he couldn’t see an end to his fascination with her, and damn but he wanted to race through all those inches of familiarity. He knew he was playing with fire, but instead of trying to quench the embers, he squeezed his hand around hers and smiled into her bright sherry eyes.
He’d worry about the danger later.
Chapter 12
Sophie apologized profusely to Mrs. Gibbon for the state of the riding habit after she changed, but the housekeeper waved it off.
“His Grace wanted you to wear it, and what good was it doing anyone in a trunk?” She collected the damp, mud-spattered habit and headed for the door. “I’m to tell you dinner will be ready shortly, and you may go down when you wish.”
“Oh,” she said in surprise, but the housekeeper was gone, leaving her alone in the room. She stepped in front of the tall cheval mirror to make certain she was as neat as could be in the housemaid’s cast-off dress. For a moment she thought of the fine gowns that must be lying in wrappings just above her head. If she could borrow a riding habit, perhaps she could borrow another dress . . .
No. She firmly put that thought from her head. Those were not her clothes, they were the duke’s. Just because he allowed her to borrow a riding habit didn’t mean he wanted to see her in one of those fine gowns upstairs. And as for herself . . . She was five kinds of fool for wanting to look attractive tonight, when she was already suffering from an overwhelming temptation to flirt with Ware.
She drew herself up in front of the mirror. “Remember yourself,” she said sternly to her reflection. She was not a duchess, and she didn’t deserve to wear their clothes any more than she ought to consider letting the duke seduce her. It was a good thing the rain had stopped and she would be returning to London soon, where she would go back to her ordinary life and Ware would resume his very elegant one. She gave her skirt one more tug to smooth a wrinkle, then turned and went down to dinner.
They dined, as they had every night, in the breakfast room. It had a different feel by candlelight, and tonight it felt even more intimate. The names, she decided; he called her Sophie, as she had impulsively invited him to do. And she called him Ware, marveling every time that she was on friendly terms with a duke.
After dinner they wandered through the house idly. Ware showed her a few more of his drawings, tucked away in odd corners of the gallery. He was so charmingly modest about them, calling them his scribblings when she thought they were quite good. There was one of a horse—“the best jumper in all of Britain,” he said—and one of Kirkwood Hall, his main estate in Somerset. It looked like a palace from the time of the Tudors, and was every bit as intimidating as she had expected a duke’s home would be. Now at last she saw why he called Alwyn his favorite of all his houses; the rest of his houses were actual castles.
But she could listen to him talk about it forever. There was something different about his voice now. At first it had been cool and remote, as elegant and aristocratic as could be. Over the last two days, he had become warmer, more animated. He laughed at her teasing instead of giving her a stern look. At first she’d thought he was affronted—as she had intended—but now she thought it was because he wasn’t arrogant and dull, and he didn’t like her thinking him so. Every now and then she caught him giving her a roguish glance. What had he been like as a young man? she wondered. And what might have happened had she met him then?
Eventually they ended up in the library. By now it was also Sophie’s favorite
room in the house. She sank gratefully onto the sofa, lounging inelegantly on the silk upholstery. “That was a glorious day,” she announced. “You must watch carefully, or I shall be tempted to steal Minnie from your stables.”
He had followed more slowly, but now came around the sofa and took the chair. “She would run back the first time you took her out, to rejoin Maximillian.”
Sophie laughed. “Ah yes, her true love.”
“I understand one should not interfere with it in any way.” He set down two glasses and wrapped a towel around the top of the bottle he held.
Sophie sat up, eyes on the bottle. “Is that champagne?”
“Indeed.” He uncorked it, filled the two glasses, and handed her one. The bubbles fizzing gently against the crystal. “Wilson says the roads are drying well. The carriage is repaired. If the sun is out tomorrow, we can return to London.”
“Oh!” She took a sip, then another. “That’s lovely,” she whispered.
He looked amused. “Have you never had it?”
“Oh no.” She drank some more, reveling in the cool crisp wine. “Far too elegant for my usual haunts.”
“Then we shall have two bottles.” He leaned back in his chair. “In celebration of the repaired carriage.”
And their impending return to London. Sophie raised her glass in salute and drank some more, reminding herself that it was what she’d been demanding for three days. Now that the moment was at hand, she felt none of the relief she had anticipated. Back in London, there would be no more playing cards with the duke, or riding in the rain, or exploring dusty attics. She would go back to the gambling tables, carefully squirreling away shillings and pounds either as a fortune to help her get a husband, or to purchase an annuity to sustain her into old age. She would have tea every fortnight with her friends, listening to Georgiana wax euphoric about Lord Sterling’s charm and to Eliza fret about her father’s determination that her enormous dowry must attract a noble husband.
Her lips curved at the thought of her friends. How it would amaze them if they knew she was here with a duke, reclining on a sofa in his country mansion and drinking champagne with him.
But her smile faded. She could hardly tell them about this—indeed, if gossip had spread despite Mr. Dashwood’s rule to the contrary, she might not be permitted to see her friends again. Mr. Cross was indulgent and fond of her, but even he would draw the line if he feared Sophie’s reputation would tarnish Eliza’s. And Georgiana’s chaperone had only agreed to their regular teas with reluctance in the first place. One whiff of scandal about Sophie’s name and Lady Sidlow would be furious.
No, back in London her life would not be completely the same.
She turned her head to study Ware. He was watching her, and when their eyes connected, a little shock raced through her. All his aloof reserve had vanished; she had thought him implacable and stern, but now it seemed like that had been another man. He sprawled as easily in the chair as she lay on the sofa, his chin propped in one hand and the glass of champagne dangling from the fingertips of his other hand.
“It will be strange to go back to London after this,” she said.
“Very,” he agreed.
“No doubt in a few days’ time it will all seem like a dream. A holiday from the world and its cares.”
He made a soft noise of agreement. Sophie finished her glass of champagne, and he leaned forward to refill it. “Are you still eager to return?”
She settled more comfortably on the sofa. Her answer at the moment was a resounding no. This moment, right now, was almost perfect. But this moment could not last, and the fact that she wanted it to last meant it was past time to go home. “Of course,” she said. “One does what one must.”
“Hmm.” He slouched deeper into his chair. “You stopped demanding I take you back at once.”
“I’m not a fool,” she said pertly. “With a broken carriage axle and never-ending rain, I acknowledge that returning at once was beyond even the Duke of Ware.”
He smiled. “Yet now the happy moment is approaching, and you aren’t dancing with joy.”
No. Not only was she less than eager to face the consequences, she was finally admitting to herself that she had enjoyed these few days.
With him. Because of him.
“You said you didn’t expect to win that wager,” she said softly, staring up at the ceiling. It was covered with elaborate scrollwork in gold, with a frieze of mythological beings cavorting around the edges. The chandelier of cut crystal glittered in the lamplight. That ceiling was probably worth more than her entire house. “Why did you propose it?”
He pushed himself upright in his chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked down at her. His golden hair was rumpled into waves that made her long to smooth them. “Haven’t you guessed?”
She angled her face toward him. “Tell me. I’m no good at guessing.”
He let out his breath, his eyes shadowed, and then he bent and kissed her. His mouth was soft, a gentle hint of a kiss rather than a real one. Her eyes drifted closed as his lips whispered over hers, and she moved toward him like a flower seeking the sun. His fingertips touched her jaw, angling her face with the slightest perceptible pressure. A soft sound of pleasure hummed in her throat.
The duke lifted his head. For a moment they stared at each other. “Is that all?” Sophie whispered, belatedly realizing how her heart was thudding. “All you want?”
“No.” He traced one finger, as lightly as a feather, down her throat. A shiver rippled over her skin, and her nipples hardened as his gaze swept over her. “Not by a tenth.”
She was in no condition to face this decision. Alone with him for three full days, exposed to his dry humor and surprising humanity and unbearable attractiveness, she was virtually defenseless when his gaze connected with hers again, this time hot with hunger. She should think of her reputation, already perilously uncertain after that wager; she should think of Philip, who would view it as a betrayal by both of them. She should think of Giles Carter, who was her best chance for a respectable marriage. She should think of herself, and how she would feel if she succumbed to this strangely potent desire for a man who would never fall in love with her.
But when she opened her mouth—“Show me,” she whispered. “Please.”
His answering smile was slow and hungry, as if some sort of fire had roared to life inside him, and Sophie felt it all the way to her toes. He had chipped away at her guard by taking her riding, by showing her his house, by letting her tempt him into being silly and then laughing at himself. She had begun to like him, far more than she’d thought possible. But when he looked at her like this, with desire and passion sharpening his features, everything inside her ignited into a simmering lust.
She could blame it on the rain, or the roads, or even the champagne, but the truth was she wanted the Duke of Ware. She wanted him to take her to bed and make love to her over and over until she couldn’t remember anything other than the touch of his hands and mouth on her body. She wanted him to make her feel wanted, as desperately as she wanted him.
This time his mouth was firm, demanding. He tipped her chin until her lips parted, and then his tongue invaded, conquering. She went down without a fight, reaching up to push her fingers into his hair and hold him to her as she kissed him back. His fingers slid down her throat to her neckline, along the edge of the fabric until she squirmed and writhed with longing for him to rip it right down the middle and ravish her.
She twisted on the sofa, straining to be closer. His arms went around her, and dimly she felt the sharp tug of buttons being undone. Her bodice came loose, and she arched her back as he pulled it down her arms.
He was on his knees beside the sofa now, still kissing her deeply. Sophie was all but curled around him, her thighs pressed to his side, her arms clinging to his neck. His hand gripped her knee for a moment, then slid up, dragging her skirt with it. He cupped her bottom and pulled her hard toward him, and she moaned as he moved agai
nst her, his erection obvious even through layers of clothing.
In fits and starts she shoved and yanked at his clothes. His jacket hit the floor and then his cravat. He pressed her back into the cushions, his lips murmuring over the swells of her breasts as he stripped off his waistcoat. Frantic to feel his skin against hers, she twisted her arms behind her, trying to reach the remaining buttons of her dress.
His breath puffed in a faint laugh on her throat. “Leave it,” he whispered, untying the string that held her chemise closed.
“Take off your shirt,” she gasped, and he obligingly whipped it over his head.
She spread her hands on his bare chest, almost whimpering with want. God, he was perfect, lean and firm and so hot against her palms. He growled some indistinct encouragement as he tugged the chemise aside and licked her nipple.
“Oh—!” She lurched upward, gripping his arms. His muscles bunched and flexed, and then his hand was on her knee, sliding upward.
“I wanted you the moment I saw you,” he whispered, his fingers pausing to tug at her garter. Sophie jerked in disbelief. His expression was fierce, his eyes burning. “I want to make love to you, Sophie, so badly I can hardly bear it.”
His heart was hammering; she could feel it beneath her palms. Her blood was running just as hot, and she looked him right in the eyes and said, “Yes. Yes.”
The rakish grin flashed across his face for a moment, and then his hand reached the top of her thigh. His fingers brushed the curls between her legs, and she spread her knees wider. She stared at him, her eyes wide with pleading.
He swore under his breath, then tossed up her skirt as he dragged her to the edge of the sofa. She sprawled wantonly, one foot on the floor, her other propped on the back of the sofa, the duke on his knees between her thighs. He pressed her back again, his big hand cupping her cheek before sliding possessively down her chest, pausing to fondle her breast, then spreading wide across her belly. His eyes were stormy gray as he touched her again, his fingers bold and unhurried, making her writhe and gasp.
My Once and Future Duke Page 13
