“Nor did I.” He held up one hand in innocence at the glance she shot him. “I swear it.”
She bit her lip. “Then you understand why we can’t see each other again.”
“Of cour—” He stopped in the middle of blind agreement with whatever she said. “What?”
Color flooded her face. “We can’t see each other after this,” she said again. “No one must know about . . . this. You know why.”
Jack stared. No, he wanted to snarl, he did not know.
“If you don’t, you will once we are back in town. Philip—” She paused and frowned, without looking at him. “Philip told me enough about you and the requirements of your title, and obviously during our time together I’ve seen . . . I understand, really, I do. But my position is far more delicate, and I—” She took a deep breath. “I would not fit into your life, nor you into mine.”
Jack lurched upright. “Don’t be ridiculous. One of the benefits of being a duke, my dear. I can do what I want.”
“We both know that’s not entirely true,” she answered quietly. “You have responsibilities, far beyond saving Philip from himself. But I . . . I cannot do whatever I wish. I also have a reputation to guard, and this . . .” Her voice wavered. “This interlude would irreparably harm it. I haven’t a title to shield me from ruin.”
“Who said anything about ruin?” he demanded.
She paused, blinking several times. “What—what do you mean?”
Yes, what did he mean? He wanted to wake up with her in his bed more often, but there were only a few ways that would happen: if she were his mistress, his lover, or his wife. And only one of those offered no possibility of scandal for a respectable widow.
Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed and stalked to the windows to glare at the bucolic scene below. She’d said she didn’t want to be his mistress. She also wouldn’t risk being his lover. And that left only one option, which was simply impossible. Because it would be madness even to think of anything more than an affair with a woman he barely knew. Wouldn’t it?
Wouldn’t it?
He flexed his hands, thinking about it anyway. It would shock society if he began courting a woman like Sophie. Everyone would accuse her of being a modern Circe, scheming to ensnare a duke. Before long the parade of people who hounded him for something would turn to her, hoping to win her favor so she would use her influence with him. And then she would see him as the duke, a source of wealth and power, and not just Jack . . .
No. He scowled at the thought; she wasn’t like that. If he knew anything about her after these days together, he knew that much.
But for all her independent ways, she wanted to marry someone she loved. He wasn’t fooled when she said such matches were rare. Her parents had defied convention and been disowned to be together. Would she go to the same lengths for someone she cared for? He thought she would.
She wouldn’t risk anything for him, though. She didn’t want to be his lover. She was perfectly ready not to see him ever again, which could only mean she didn’t see any possibility of falling in love with him.
Ever.
He should have shrugged it off. Hadn’t he told her himself that the Dukes of Ware didn’t marry for love? They married for status, for wealth, or for connection—all three, whenever possible—and Sophie Campbell offered none of those. Even if she did, marriage was not something to consider after knowing a woman only four days.
But something inside him rose in denial at the thought of never seeing her again, bringing an instinctive growl of protest to his lips. “There’s no need to make a hasty decision.”
“Hasty!” She looked at him askance. “It’s not hasty if it’s the only possible choice! What will change once we return to London? You said yourself you are consumed by duty and obligation. I have my own life, and the circles I move in do not intersect those you move in. In London we have no respectable reason to meet, which means that if we do, it will attract notice.” Her voice dropped. “I cannot weather that sort of scandal. It will be bad enough after the wager.”
“Dashwood exacts a promise,” he began.
“And the most he can do to punish someone who breaks it is expel that person from Vega’s,” she finished. “The odds that no one will whisper about it . . .” One hand fluttered helplessly. “I don’t risk odds that poor.”
Jack’s hands were in fists. She was right, but . . . God. These last few days he had felt like a new man, a man he vastly preferred being.
When he said nothing, she sighed. “Promise me, Jack. Please.”
“If that is what you really wish.” Say it isn’t, he silently urged. Let her show one little sign of encouragement, and he would toss convention and expectation on its ear, and see her anytime he liked. He was a duke, damn it, and he could do whatever he pleased . . .
When she didn’t reply, he turned to look at her. “Is it?”
She lifted her chin and gazed right at him. “It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s the way the world is.”
There was his answer. The possibility of more flickered and died like a candle guttering out. “Then I give you my word not to breathe a word to anyone.”
The drive back to London took place in near total silence. She wore her crimson dress again, stained dark from the hem to her knees. Jack hoped she did send him a bill for it.
They sat on the rear seat together, close enough for him to hear her breathe. Under the folds of her cloak his hand clasped hers. Jack’s brain felt paralyzed. In four short days he had grown so attuned to this woman, her smiles, her frowns, her wry little glances that made him want to laugh out loud. He would have been content for the carriage to keep driving all the way to Scotland.
But there was no way to say any of it. In fact, he thought he might be going mad just for thinking it.
Even sooner than expected, she stirred. “I should get down.”
“What?” He tensed. “Why?”
“I can walk from here. Tell him to stop.”
Jack drew breath to argue, then leaned forward and rapped twice on the driver’s window. Of course he couldn’t drive her to her front door, after swearing a vow of secrecy. “Stop here,” he called. The carriage slowed, creaking from side to side as the driver maneuvered out of the flow of traffic.
“Will you be—” he began, but Sophie cut him off. She put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him. Jack pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her and hauling her onto his lap.
She rested her forehead against his, her fingers sliding into his hair at the base of his neck. “I’ll have to put out a story to explain my absence from town. I think it would be best if no one even thinks I left.”
“Of course.” Saying the words aloud made him want to punch something, even though he had agreed to it. Before they left Chiswick, he had told the entire staff, under penalty of immediate sacking without a reference, not to mention her presence at the house to a soul.
But he knew. He could never forget that she’d been there, playing his out-of-tune pianoforte, laughing at his ineptitude at cards, making love to him on the sofa in the library. He kissed her again with the desperation of a man who feared he would be bereft once she stepped out of the coach. “If you ever need anything”—if you ever need me—“send for me. Write to me.”
She touched his lip and mustered a bittersweet smile. “Goodbye, Jack.”
“Goodbye,” he managed to say.
She brushed her lips against his once more, and then she was gone. He threw up the shade in time to see her tug her hood over her head and join the throng of people hurrying to market. It was still early, and she should be able to reach her home unnoticed.
“Ware House,” he murmured, staring at her and not at the footman standing smartly by the door.
“Yes, Your Grace.” With a snap, the door closed, and the carriage resumed moving.
Jack let out his breath. She was gone.
Chapter 14
Sophie went to the back of her small house, st
artling the cook and Colleen at their breakfast when she let herself in through the scullery. “Madam!”
“I’m home,” she said with a forced smile. “And in desperate need of a bath.” She wasn’t really, but it would give her servants something to do and put off their questions. Colleen scrambled up to attend her while the cook went for water, and Sophie breathed a sigh of relief once she was back in the privacy of her bedroom.
“We didn’t expect you back for two more days,” said Colleen, bustling around the room. “That servant who came said you’d been called away urgently and wouldn’t be back for a week.”
Her breath hitched at the thought. She might have spent two more days in Jack’s arms . . . but no. It was better to be home now, before things could spiral completely out of control.
“He also said it was a very secret reason, madam,” Colleen added with evident curiosity, “and that I wasn’t to speak about it.”
“Oh—Oh, yes, it was very sudden,” Sophie said quickly. “A very personal reason, which I would like to keep secret.” When she’d hired Colleen, it had been on the understanding that the maid wasn’t to gossip about her. That had been to conceal the fact that Sophie was not a widow and gambled for a living, but now it paid immeasurable dividends as her maid rushed to assure her she hadn’t said a word to anyone.
“How have things been here?” she asked to change the subject.
“Quiet.” Colleen unpinned her hair from its twist and began brushing it. Sophie closed her eyes against the memory of Jack’s hands tangled in her hair as he kissed her, his body hot and heavy above hers. “Mr. Carter called and left his card, as did Lord Philip. And there’s some letters from Lady Georgiana and Miss Cross.”
Nothing out of the ordinary, but a pointed reminder that she had a fine line to tread in the next several days. “Bring the letters after I wash,” she directed. “What did you tell the gentlemen?”
“I didn’t know what to say, so I told them you were ill. Was I right?”
She let out her breath in relief. “You did very well.”
Colleen’s eyes met hers in the mirror for a moment. “Are you . . . well again, madam?”
No. Jack had upended and jumbled everything in her life, and already she missed him more than she could say. She could still almost feel his freshly shaven cheek against hers. “I’m home again, aren’t I?” she said briskly. “That’s what matters—and that no one knows I was gone. How did the gentlemen take the news of my, er, indisposition?”
Colleen went to unfasten her dress. “Mr. Carter looked relieved. He sent flowers.” Her hands busy with the buttons, she nodded toward the writing desk by the window, where a bright bouquet sat in a vase. “Lord Philip didn’t take it quite so well. He demanded to see you, and when I refused, he scowled and muttered about traitors.” She motioned for Sophie to stand and take off the dress. “He came twice. The second time I thought he might try to force his way upstairs, but finally he went away when I said you specifically didn’t want to see him.” She paused. “I couldn’t think how else to persuade him, ma’am. I hope I did right.”
Blast. She had hoped Philip would leave her in peace now. “Yes, exactly right,” she told Colleen. The maid handed her a dressing gown to wear until the bath was ready, and she couldn’t help thinking of Jack’s blue velvet banyan. Would his next lover wear it, too? Would he take another woman to Alwyn House? I want you in my blue banyan, up against a wall, your legs around my waist . . .
“Letters,” she said to force her mind away from that. “You said there were some . . . ?”
“Yes.” Colleen fetched them. There were three, one from Georgiana and two from Eliza. Sophie took them to the chair by the window to read while Colleen prepared the tub.
I have heard the most alarming rumor about you, began Eliza’s first letter. Can it really be true? After G and I teased you so about Lord Philip, it is incredible you would wager with his brother! Did you really? I did not know you were even acquainted with him. Everyone seems to be talking of it, although your part is overshadowed by that of the Duke of Ware. Papa said he thought the man was made of stone. It has left everyone quite scandalized that he would behave so . . .
Sophie set it aside and opened Georgiana’s note. It was far shorter, only a few lines:
Lady Sidlow says I may write you this once to ask if it is true, that you gambled with the Duke of W. If it is true, I may not be permitted to write again, but I would still cry bravo! I hope you are taking my advice to make one of the patrons there fall in love with you. Ware is the most splendid catch in Britain, and so very handsome—you could not have done better. If it is not true, you must write to me at once, in language suitable for Lady Sidlow, so that I may come to call again and hear the true story—I know you well enough to know something occurred. Reply as soon as you are able, as I am absolutely perishing of curiosity.
She set that one aside as well, but with a smile. Eliza’s second letter, though, dated only the day before, erased it.
Since I’ve not heard from you, I can only suppose something dreadful has happened. No one has seen either you or the duke in society, at least not that Papa has heard. Was he terrible to you? Are you in hiding? We are worried for you, Sophie. Do reply and let me know you are well. If there is to be trouble, you will want friends . . .
The pages fell in her lap. She put one hand to her forehead, feeling as if she’d been wrung out like a wet cloth. It was tempting to soak in the tub and then take a long nap, hiding just a little longer from the ravenous crowd, hungry for any sign of impropriety that would be awaiting her. Vega’s infamous promise of secrecy had obviously been strained to the breaking point.
She hadn’t exaggerated when she told Jack that she had no rank or fortune to shield her from ruin. She would have to save her reputation one steely word and resolute smile at a time. There was no other choice: no one must know the truth.
Her gaze drifted to the window, wondering if Jack had reached his house yet. He’d spoken of it in such stark terms, even though it was sure to be one of the finest homes in London. She rested her hand against the windowpane. Where was Ware House? He’d never said and she had no idea. Just one more sign that he was gone from her life forever.
By the time she wrote brief, vague replies to her friends assuring them she was well and would tell them all at their next tea, her bath was ready. Sophie stepped into the tub and submerged herself to her shoulders. Part of her didn’t want to wash away Jack’s touch, but she made herself do it. It was a lark, she told herself as she scrubbed, an affair that ought not to have happened in the first place. The best thing she could do now was to tuck it deep into her heart and leave it there forever.
She slid a little deeper into the water, tipping back her head onto the rim of the tub. It was impossible not to think of the large tub at Alwyn House—the generous bathing tub in the duchess’s chamber. Next to Jack’s. She closed her eyes and let herself drift back to that first evening, when she’d been wet, irate, and ready to vent her temper on the arrogant, obstinate duke. A smile touched her lips as she pictured what she must have looked like to him when she stormed into the library, wearing nothing but his own silk and velvet banyan. It was the most luxurious thing she’d ever worn.
That banyan should have told her, above anything else, that he wasn’t what she expected. It was too decadent, too indulgent. And the way his eyes ignited when he saw her wearing it should have told her he was a man of deep passion, just waiting to be tapped.
Even more, he’d seen right through her. Sophie lived by her wits, and it was rare that someone left her speechless, but Jack did. Even while he was stealing glances at her bare legs, he was still able to pick her apart and dig right to the heart of her secrets. He saw through her facade and spelled out virtually every bit of her Grand Plan, even if he never knew how right he was.
The smile slipped from her face at the thought of her plan, her precisely detailed plan to achieve respectability and security. Last night she hadn�
�t spent a moment thinking of it. In fact, for a few hours this morning she had let the treacherous thought cross her mind that perhaps she wouldn’t need that plan, that perhaps she’d found something worth more than ten thousand pounds and an amiable gentleman. When Jack said he wanted to see her again, she’d thought . . . even hoped . . .
That was nonsense, of course. A duke would have to be mad to marry a woman like her—and indeed, he’d only proposed an affair, with a discreet little house where they could meet until he tired of her. No matter how much she wanted him, that was something Sophie dared not risk. Creating and preserving her reputation had taken diligent effort and care. Losing it would be accomplished in the blink of an eye, and once it was gone, she would never get it back. She passed herself off as a widow in society, but if anyone dug too deeply, they would discover there had never been a Mr. Campbell, only a Miss Graham who somehow became a widow on the mail coach between Bath and London. They might discover that her only legacy was three hundred pounds left to her by Lady Fox, and that the four thousand pounds she had carefully accrued and invested in government consuls had been won from society gentlemen at hazard and whist.
Even though she sensed Jack would be generous, perhaps extravagantly so, to her if she became his mistress, it would only last as long as he wanted her. A mistress had no claim on her protector. Even worse, sooner or later he would marry someone else, a proper duchess, and then she would lose him entirely. Sophie refused to flirt with a married man, let alone carry on an affair with one.
She’d told him the truth: there was no other choice for her. Now that she was back in London, she must not only resume the plan, she must redouble her efforts, to make up for the setback it had suffered.
And that meant going back to Vega’s, facing the same people who had last seen her being swept out the door in Jack’s arm after that outrageous wager. Facing Philip, who would be angry—and Giles Carter, who might well be disgusted. With a gusty sigh she slid down, letting the water wash over her head.
My Once and Future Duke Page 15
