My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(23)

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 mess, 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.