My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(37)

The eastern side of the attics were not as intriguing. Neat rows of crates and trunks lined the walls, and when she managed to pry open one crate, it turned out to hold pieces of metal, wrapped in flannels under the straw.

“A knight’s suit of armor and weaponry!” She held up one piece in triumph, a long rod with a wicked hook on one end. “How many enemies do you think your ancestors struck down with this? It looks like a spear.”

Ware looked astonished and came over for a closer look. He inspected the spear for a moment, then gave her a strange glance. “It’s an old fire fork. Unless our enemies were attempting to invade the house through the fireplace, I doubt it struck down anyone.”

She made a face and replaced the fire fork, which really ought to have been a spear. “How ordinary.”

He smiled. “I did warn you.”

That sapped any interest from opening more crates. Sophie surveyed the trunks nearest them. “What is this?” She touched a small silver badge hammered into the end of one.

The duke brought the lamp and stooped to see it. His shoulder brushed her elbow as he did, sending a charge through her that went right down to her toes. She drew back, unconsciously rubbing the spot. She would have retreated more but there was no room—-she was stuck with her back against the crates and his broad shoulders and golden head right in front of her, almost on his knees at her feet. Right at the perfect level for her to plow her fingers into the rumpled waves of his hair.

Horrified, she forced her eyes up to stare fixedly at the rafters above them. He was a sinfully handsome man. He was being very kind today, indulging her interest in rummaging through old furniture. Before she could stop them, Georgiana’s words pattered through her mind about making one of the gentlemen she met at Vega’s fall in love with her, and she couldn’t help remembering that she had met Ware at Vega’s.

She had kept the men she wagered with at arm’s length for the most part; she didn’t want to marry an avid gambler. But the Duke of Ware was not a gambler at all. Nor was he the cold, boring drudge Philip had described. He was almost unbearably attractive, particularly when he smiled, and he was attracted to her. And her body was suddenly warming to the idea of flirting with him up here in this shadowy private world where only the two of them existed . . .

“My grandmother’s monogram,” he said, making her start. “The W for Wilhelmina beneath the ducal coronet.” He rose to stand beside her. “She was a capital rider,” he remarked. “Even in her old age she kept an excellent stable.”

Sophie was endeavoring to ignore how his arm was right next to hers, and how she would be practically in his arms if she made a quarter turn to her left. “Wilhelmina,” she said, seizing on any distraction. “What an unusual name.”

“Her father was a Prussian archduke. The marriage was arranged because my great--grandfather thought it would curry favor with George II if his son wed a bride from Hanover.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

He sighed in exasperation. “Yes, it was arranged for political advantage. But I do believe they were fond of each other, and my grandfather never exiled her anywhere. In fact, he indulged her a great deal. Her horses were imported from the finest stables in Europe.”

“A veritable love match,” she said. “I feel vastly relieved to know it, for their sakes.”

He gave her an exasperated glance. “Must everyone have a love match?”

“Of course not. People are free to marry for misery, or for money, or for any reason they choose.”

“I suppose you would know,” he said. “Having been married.”

Right—-the mythical Mr. Campbell. During her long trip on the mail coach from Bath to London three years ago, Sophie had created an entirely new history for herself, including a sadly deceased husband. In her mind, Mr. Campbell had been tall and thin, a bit sickly but kind, a scholarly man who could be lamented but not really missed. She told people he was Scottish but had an American mother, to deter any questions about his family.

But the duke didn’t need to know any of that. “The vicar doesn’t quiz you on your reasons for marriage,” she said lightly. “As long as the banns have been called properly, he reads the ceremony.”

“You must have been very young.”

Sophie’s smile grew fixed. “Young but not naive.”

“I presume it was a love match.” Even in the lamp light, his eyes were so very blue and vivid. “Since your parents had such a blissful union.”

She turned away. “I told you before—-that sort of marriage is rare.” Rare, and not without cost. Her Grand Plan was to find a sensible, kind man of sufficient income. Someone she could be fond of, but not someone she fell in love with. Someone very like her imaginary Mr. Campbell, as it happened. As much as Sophie longed for the devotion and adoration her parents had shared, she wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to follow her passion as they had done. Could she give up everything for a man, even a man who loved her? Could she resign herself to scraping for money to pay the butcher, the landlord, the doctor? Her parents had loved each other deeply, but it had cost them—-and in the end, it had cost Sophie, as well.

“What is in these trunks?” she asked to divert him. “There are so many.”

The duke’s gaze lingered on her; he knew she had dodged his question, and for some reason he seemed disappointed. He cared to know her answer. “Clothing, most likely.” He pulled out the trunk with the elaborate engraved W on the end and undid the latches.