My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(41)

Jack turned and looked back; her hat lay forgotten in the trampled grass, a small gray spot in the green meadow. “Minerva follows wherever Maximillian leads. She’s quite besotted with him.”

“Oh?”

“See how she follows him. Leave your reins slack,” he directed, and nudged his horse back toward the hat.

“Unfair!” she cried as Minerva promptly followed.

He grinned. “Because she chooses to follow her heart?”

She rolled her eyes as he teased her with her own words. “Because all this time I’ve been feeling rather proud of myself for remembering how to ride, when she was merely following you.”

“How long has it been since you rode?” They had reached the hat. Jack swung down to the ground and scooped it up. It looked a little damp but otherwise unscathed.

“Oh, years. Keeping a horse costs far more than hiring a hackney.”

Maximillian was snuffling at Minerva in friendly fashion. Jack had chosen this pair because of how well they got on together. “See?” he said, nodding at them. “True love.”

“I shall allow that to stand unchallenged, as it proves my greater point—-true love is rare, but powerful.” She put out her hand for the hat.

“How do you know it’s rare?” He held on to the hat. He rather liked the way locks of hair had fallen loose around her face. It gave her a beautifully disheveled air, intimate and arresting. Of course, damn near everything about her was arresting his attention lately, making him crave ever more intimacy.

She wiggled her fingers in appeal. “How many marriages can you name based on true love?”

“Several,” he countered, stubbornly holding the hat.

Her brows arched. “But none in your family.”

Jack sighed and relinquished the hat. “By their choice.”

She took her time resettling the hat on her head, tucking away all those teasing wisps of hair. “I suppose that divides us, Your Grace,” she said at last, gathering her reins again. “I think it is rare, and I would not put duty or social advantage above it. Shall we ride on?” She nudged Minerva forward, leaving him standing in the field and wondering why he’d asked that question. Her opinions on love should not matter to him.



They rode for a while, tearing across the meadow several more times. It occurred to Jack that she hadn’t asked an obvious question: why couldn’t they ride back to London? The meadow wasn’t as rutted or flooded as the road, but it was remarkably solid, and with care it certainly seemed they could navigate the roads. Given the fresh newspapers lying on the breakfast table every morning, Jack expected Owens had been riding Maximillian to the nearest posting inn with regularity.

But she never asked, and he began to suspect she was enjoying herself. That suited him perfectly, because he was beginning to think a week was far too short a time to spend with her.

The skies were noticeably brighter by the time they returned to the stables, spattered with mud. Owens took the horses, and Jack offered her his arm as they started toward the house. She took it very naturally.

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking me riding.”

“It was my pleasure, Mrs. Campbell.” He was surprised by how true that was. By how much he had enjoyed every day with her, in fact.

“Do you know, I don’t think I’ve spent so much time exclusively with any one person since my parents died,” she remarked.

Jack thought of Percy, his secretary, who sat in his study for hours each day as they worked. Percy couldn’t count. “It’s unusual for me, as well.”

“One might also suppose we’ve come to be friends,” she said lightly.

Aside from the fact that he harbored some feelings toward her that one never applied to mere friends, Jack heartily agreed. “One might.”

She glanced sideways at him, as if she’d heard his unspoken caveat. “I don’t expect it will last once we leave. But perhaps . . . just for now . . . you might call me Sophie.” Jack stopped dead. She smiled and waved one hand airily. “I’ve grown tired of hearing ‘Mrs. Campbell,’ is all. If you find it objectionable, by all means—-”

“No.” He put his hand over hers on his arm. “You mistake me . . . Sophie.”

Her smile turned brighter, almost too bright. “Very good . . . Ware.”

Jack knew that calling her by name breached some barrier from which there would be no going back. Friends, she said; it won’t last once we leave. That sounded like the first step on the road of temptation. Every inch of familiarity would lead to another, and another, and another, because he couldn’t see an end to his fascination with her, and damn but he wanted to race through all those inches of familiarity. He knew he was playing with fire, but instead of trying to quench the embers, he squeezed his hand around hers and smiled into her bright sherry eyes.

He’d worry about the danger later.





Chapter 12




Sophie apologized profusely to Mrs. Gibbon for the state of the riding habit after she changed, but the housekeeper waved it off.

“His Grace wanted you to wear it, and what good was it doing anyone in a trunk?” She collected the damp, mud--spattered habit and headed for the door. “I’m to tell you dinner will be ready shortly, and you may go down when you wish.”