My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(13)

“Five thousand pounds,” she said, her voice so soft he barely heard it. Her eyes flickered toward Philip, almost in apology. “Against one week of my company.”

She was considering it. His heart jolted in his chest. He would probably lose, the way his luck was running, but . . . she was considering it.

With a quick motion she put back her shoulders and stepped to the table. “Done.”

The crowd hissed in stunned surprise. Philip froze, his expression terrible. Jack barely registered any of it; triumph shot through him, hot and thrilling. Mrs. Campbell tipped up her face to stare defiantly into his eyes, and he knew, in some deep primitive part of his soul, that he was going to win.

And damn it all if his pulse didn’t surge at the thought.

“A moment, Your Grace,” murmured someone beside him. Dashwood, the club owner, had sidled through the crowd. “That’s a rather substantial wager.”

Slowly Jack turned. “Do you think I cannot cover it?”

A nervous titter ran through the crowd. Everyone knew he could cover five times that amount.

“That wasn’t my concern,” said Dashwood, unperturbed. “You’re not a member and I cannot guarantee anything . . . on either side.”

Jack raised his head and gave him a glacial look. “Are you interfering?”

Finally the club owner paused. It probably went against the grain for the owner of a gambling hell to prohibit any sort of wager. “Not if the lady is certain she wishes to proceed.” He cocked his head expectantly. “Are you, Mrs. Campbell?”

It was utterly silent. Jack watched the pulse throb at the base of her throat; he studied the color that rose in her cheeks. She was as rosy and delicious as fresh strawberries. He should hope the owner’s question gave her time to reconsider and refuse. He was insane to do this. She had bewitched Philip, and seemed in a fair way of doing the same to him.

But he mentally growled in triumph when she put up her chin and said, clearly and boldly, “Quite certain, Mr. Dashwood.”

The club owner bowed his head and stepped aside. Jack picked up the dice and offered them to Mrs. Campbell. Her fingertips brushed his palm as she took them, and her gaze jumped to clash with his. Something leaped inside him, and he waved one hand at the table, inviting her to play first.

“Seven,” she called, flinging the dice. An eight. She made a face of exaggerated regret and swept up the dice for her next roll. A nine. Grimly, she rolled once more.

Eleven.

Her eyelashes fluttered, but she didn’t say anything. Jack reached for the dice. For the first time all evening, they felt light and easy in his hand. He let them rest there a moment, weighing them. He couldn’t lose now; if he threw out, it would be a draw and they would both walk away. But if he won . . .

“Six,” he said quietly, and flicked his wrist. The dice bounced around before settling into place.

A pair of threes.

Her chest heaved as she stared at them. It was practically the only good roll he’d made all night. The onlookers burst into a seething rumble of whispers and exclamations. Jack turned to his brother, who was staring white--faced at the table. “You’re done here. I won’t cover another debt from this or any other gaming club.”

“Right. Very well.” Philip seemed to have difficulty breathing. “I’ll agree to that. I deserve that. But don’t do this—-not her—-”

Jack looked at Mrs. Campbell. She still stood as if frozen at the table. Everyone had withdrawn a step, leaving her alone in the center of a small circle. She was staring at the dice, her eyelashes dark against her pale cheeks.

Reluctantly his conscience stirred. His quarrel wasn’t with her. He could speak to her privately, in Dashwood’s office, and explain why he’d made that wager. He was only trying to save his brother from ruin. Well—-his gaze dipped to her bosom for a moment—-not entirely, of course, but it was an unimpeachable motive and had the benefit of being true. He would release her from the wager on the condition she swear not to gamble with Philip again. That was his primary purpose—-his only purpose, damn it, even though he had to work to keep his eyes off her—-separating her and every other sharper from his brother.

Philip pushed past him and took Mrs. Campbell’s hand. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he said to her. “It was a coerced wager. You aren’t required to fulfill it.” He shot a venomous glare at Jack.

She started as if from a trance. “What?”

“Of course you aren’t!” Philip exclaimed. He lowered his voice, but Jack still heard. “He did it to punish me, because of our friendship. He cannot hold you to it—-nor will I allow him to, Sophie.” Philip clasped her hand in both of his and brought it to his lips while Mrs. Campbell raised her eyes to Jack’s.

There was no fear or horror in them—-she was furious. And she was letting Philip hold her hand for far too long.

His conscience fell mute. “On the contrary.” He tilted his head, and Dashwood, lingering nearby but pointedly looking away, sighed.

“Mrs. Campbell, you lost a wager freely agreed to. It must be paid.”

Her bosom rose and fell. Her eyes glittered. “Yes. Of course. I see that. If His Grace will call upon me tomorrow, I’m sure we can—-”

“Mr. Dashwood,” Jack said, “collect Mrs. Campbell’s winnings and credit them to her account.” He took her arm and tugged her away from Philip. She hung back and he put an arm around her waist, deliberately holding her to him. It was meant for Philip, but again his heart seemed to stumble over itself at the warmth of her body against his. He started for the door, taking her with him.