My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(42)

“Oh,” she said in surprise, but the housekeeper was gone, leaving her alone in the room. She stepped in front of the tall cheval mirror to make certain she was as neat as could be in the housemaid’s cast--off dress. For a moment she thought of the fine gowns that must be lying in wrappings just above her head. If she could borrow a riding habit, perhaps she could borrow another dress . . .

No. She firmly put that thought from her head. Those were not her clothes, they were the duke’s. Just because he allowed her to borrow a riding habit didn’t mean he wanted to see her in one of those fine gowns upstairs. And as for herself . . . She was five kinds of fool for wanting to look attractive tonight, when she was already suffering from an overwhelming temptation to flirt with Ware.

She drew herself up in front of the mirror. “Remember yourself,” she said sternly to her reflection. She was not a duchess, and she didn’t deserve to wear their clothes any more than she ought to consider letting the duke seduce her. It was a good thing the rain had stopped and she would be returning to London soon, where she would go back to her ordinary life and Ware would resume his very elegant one. She gave her skirt one more tug to smooth a wrinkle, then turned and went down to dinner.

They dined, as they had every night, in the breakfast room. It had a different feel by candlelight, and tonight it felt even more intimate. The names, she decided; he called her Sophie, as she had impulsively invited him to do. And she called him Ware, marveling every time that she was on friendly terms with a duke.

After dinner they wandered through the house idly. Ware showed her a few more of his drawings, tucked away in odd corners of the gallery. He was so charmingly modest about them, calling them his scribblings when she thought they were quite good. There was one of a horse—-“the best jumper in all of Britain,” he said—-and one of Kirkwood Hall, his main estate in Somerset. It looked like a palace from the time of the Tudors, and was every bit as intimidating as she had expected a duke’s home would be. Now at last she saw why he called Alwyn his favorite of all his houses; the rest of his houses were actual castles.

But she could listen to him talk about it forever. There was something different about his voice now. At first it had been cool and remote, as elegant and aristocratic as could be. Over the last two days, he had become warmer, more animated. He laughed at her teasing instead of giving her a stern look. At first she’d thought he was affronted—-as she had intended—-but now she thought it was because he wasn’t arrogant and dull, and he didn’t like her thinking him so. Every now and then she caught him giving her a roguish glance. What had he been like as a young man? she wondered. And what might have happened had she met him then?

Eventually they ended up in the library. By now it was also Sophie’s favorite room in the house. She sank gratefully onto the sofa, lounging inelegantly on the silk upholstery. “That was a glorious day,” she announced. “You must watch carefully, or I shall be tempted to steal Minnie from your stables.”

He had followed more slowly, but now came around the sofa and took the chair. “She would run back the first time you took her out, to rejoin Maximillian.”

Sophie laughed. “Ah yes, her true love.”

“I understand one should not interfere with it in any way.” He set down two glasses and wrapped a towel around the top of the bottle he held.

Sophie sat up, eyes on the bottle. “Is that champagne?”

“Indeed.” He uncorked it, filled the two glasses, and handed her one. The bubbles fizzing gently against the crystal. “Wilson says the roads are drying well. The carriage is repaired. If the sun is out tomorrow, we can return to London.”

“Oh!” She took a sip, then another. “That’s lovely,” she whispered.

He looked amused. “Have you never had it?”

“Oh no.” She drank some more, reveling in the cool crisp wine. “Far too elegant for my usual haunts.”

“Then we shall have two bottles.” He leaned back in his chair. “In celebration of the repaired carriage.”

And their impending return to London. Sophie raised her glass in salute and drank some more, reminding herself that it was what she’d been demanding for three days. Now that the moment was at hand, she felt none of the relief she had anticipated. Back in London, there would be no more playing cards with the duke, or riding in the rain, or exploring dusty attics. She would go back to the gambling tables, carefully squirreling away shillings and pounds either as a fortune to help her get a husband, or to purchase an annuity to sustain her into old age. She would have tea every fortnight with her friends, listening to Georgiana wax euphoric about Lord Sterling’s charm and to Eliza fret about her father’s determination that her enormous dowry must attract a noble husband.

Her lips curved at the thought of her friends. How it would amaze them if they knew she was here with a duke, reclining on a sofa in his country mansion and drinking champagne with him.

But her smile faded. She could hardly tell them about this—-indeed, if gossip had spread despite Mr. Dashwood’s rule to the contrary, she might not be permitted to see her friends again. Mr. Cross was indulgent and fond of her, but even he would draw the line if he feared Sophie’s reputation would tarnish Eliza’s. And Georgiana’s chaperone had only agreed to their regular teas with reluctance in the first place. One whiff of scandal about Sophie’s name and Lady Sidlow would be furious.