My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(38)

Inside lay a cloud of silver paper, then layers of soft linen. Gently Sophie lifted the wrappings aside and gasped at the gown that lay below. It was cloth of gold, lavishly embroidered with pearls and dripping with lace. “May I?” She glanced at the duke in question, and he nodded. Carefully she lifted it up, speechless at the exquisite work. It still sparkled and shone, some six decades after it would have been fashionable. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Stunningly beautiful!”

She wanted to take the gown out of the trunk and hold it in the sun. She yearned for a mirror to hold it in front of herself and imagine, for one brief moment, that it was hers. She glanced at the duke from beneath her eyelashes; he had propped one elbow on the topmost trunk and stood watching her, relaxed but attentive. Perhaps what she really wanted was to pretend that in a gown like this, she’d be a worth a duke’s attention . . .

“Perhaps there are some benefits to marrying for wealth and position,” murmured the duke wryly.

She flashed a reproachful glance at him. “I never said there were none.” She just didn’t think they were worth the risk. Reverently she laid the dress back in its wrappings, tucking the coverings securely around it. “It’s a treasure chest,” she said as she closed the lid.

“That looks like her court presentation gown. There’s a portrait of her wearing it at Kirkwood Hall in Somerset.”

Another repository of family history. “She must have looked like the bride of Apollo.”

“Surely you jest. Apollo would be a mundane husband for a Duchess of Ware,” he said with a straight face. Sophie blinked, then burst out laughing. The duke did, too, his face easing into an expression of warm familiarity. He pushed the trunk back into place. “Do you wish to open more?”

Part of her did, to see what other treasures were hidden up here, but she tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear and made a face as her fingers came away sticky with cobwebs. “Unless one of the trunks contains a ghost, ready to rise from her rest and rattle chains for our entertainment, I suppose not. Surely we’ve dislodged enough dust for one day.” She brushed at her skirt, belatedly realizing a disadvantage to exploring the attics. She was a mess.

“Alas, another thing Alwyn cannot supply—-ghosts,” he said in mock chagrin. “Or if there are any about, they must be very quiet ones.” He cocked his head. “I never suspected women could be so ghoulish.”

“Well.” She waved one hand. “Discovering beautiful clothing is even better than finding a ghost.”

He grinned and looked around. “I suspect there’s enough packed away here to clothe the entire court of St. James.”

She thought of her own modest wardrobe in London—-now reduced by one bright crimson dress. Mrs. Gibbon had brought it back this morning, stained to the knee, saying there was nothing more they could do for it. The green dress Sophie wore today was another cast--off from one of the maids, she suspected, and now it was covered in grime. Alwyn House had more clothes, of higher quality, than she did.

“If it’s all as fine as that gown, I consider it a crime to leave it packed away,” she said. “Are your grandfather’s ermine--trimmed robes here, as well?”

The duke did not reply. There was a very odd look on his face as he studied her. He reached out and drew his fingers across her cheek, lingering for a moment. Sophie couldn’t move; she could hardly breathe. The touch of his fingers on her skin, stroking, the way a man might do to a woman he loved, had ignited that terrible feeling again—-the strange pull she felt toward him, and the wholly unwanted longing for him to plunge his hands into her hair and pull her against him and ravish her against these old trunks . . .

He took his hand away and flicked his fingers. “Cobwebs,” he said, his voice deep and rough.

Her face burned. She was suffering pangs of desire and he was noticing how filthy she was. Mad, mad, mad, she scolded herself. “The perils of exploring!” She swiped roughly at her dress with both hands. “I should wash . . .”

The duke made a noise, low in his throat. “You’re a very unusual woman, Mrs. Campbell.”

More than you know, Sophie thought uneasily. She summoned a carefree smile. “I choose to accept that as a compliment, Your Grace.”

He dragged his eyes up to hers, and she went hot all over at the realization he’d been watching her try to brush the dust from her bodice. “Good,” he said in the charged silence. “I meant it as one.” And with that he picked up the lamp and headed for the door, leaving her to follow with a pounding heart.





Chapter 11




“I don’t know about you,” Mrs. Campbell announced on the third morning, “but I shall run absolutely mad if I don’t get out of this house.”

Jack raised one brow. “Into the rain?”

She looked at the windows. “It’s more of a light mist today. In Russia they would account it a fine day, nothing to keep one indoors.”

“When were you in Russia?” he asked with interest.

Instead of answering, she pushed back her chair and rose. “I think a simple walk in the garden to start and then perhaps to the lake. You did say there is a path. Will you join me, or shall you spend the day lolling on a sofa in the library?”

Jack pushed back his chair as well. “I have not lolled anywhere in years, madam.”