My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(50)
She set that one aside as well, but with a smile. Eliza’s second letter, though, dated only the day before, erased it.
Since I’ve not heard from you, I can only suppose something dreadful has happened. No one has seen either you or the duke in society, at least not that Papa has heard. Was he terrible to you? Are you in hiding? We are worried for you, Sophie. Do reply and let me know you are well. If there is to be trouble, you will want friends . . .
The pages fell in her lap. She put one hand to her forehead, feeling as if she’d been wrung out like a wet cloth. It was tempting to soak in the tub and then take a long nap, hiding just a little longer from the ravenous crowd, hungry for any sign of impropriety, that would be awaiting her. Vega’s infamous promise of secrecy had obviously been strained to the breaking point.
She hadn’t exaggerated when she told Jack that she had no rank or fortune to shield her from ruin. She would have to save her reputation one steely word and resolute smile at a time. There was no other choice: no one must know the truth.
Her gaze drifted to the window, wondering if Jack had reached his house yet. He’d spoken of it in such stark terms, even though it was sure to be one of the finest homes in London. She rested her hand against the windowpane. Where was Ware House? He’d never said and she had no idea. Just one more sign that he was gone from her life forever.
By the time she wrote brief, vague replies to her friends assuring them she was well and would tell them all at their next tea, her bath was ready. Sophie stepped into the tub and submerged herself to her shoulders. Part of her didn’t want to wash away Jack’s touch, but she made herself do it. It was a lark, she told herself as she scrubbed, an affair that ought not to have happened in the first place. The best thing she could do now was to tuck it deep into her heart and leave it there forever.
She slid a little deeper into the water, tipping back her head onto the rim of the tub. It was impossible not to think of the large tub at Alwyn House—-the generous bathing tub in the duchess’s chamber. Next to Jack’s She closed her eyes and let herself drift back to that first evening, when she’d been wet, irate, and ready to vent her temper on the arrogant, obstinate duke. A smile touched her lips as she pictured what she must have looked like to him when she stormed into the library, wearing nothing but his own silk and velvet banyan. It was the most luxurious thing she’d ever worn.
That banyan should have told her, above anything else, that he wasn’t what she expected. It was too decadent, too indulgent. And the way his eyes ignited when he saw her wearing it should have told her he was a man of deep passion, just waiting to be tapped.
Even more, he’d seen right through her. Sophie lived by her wits, and it was rare that someone left her speechless, but Jack did. Even while he was stealing glances at her bare legs, he was still able to pick her apart and dig right to the heart of her secrets. He saw through her facade and spelled out virtually every bit of her Grand Plan, even if he never knew how right he was.
The smile slipped from her face at the thought of her plan, her precisely detailed plan to achieve respectability and security. Last night she hadn’t spent a moment thinking of it. In fact, for a few hours this morning she had let the treacherous thought cross her mind that perhaps she wouldn’t need that plan, that perhaps she’d found something worth more than ten thousand pounds and an amiable gentleman. When Jack said he wanted to see her again, she’d thought . . . even hoped . . .
That was nonsense, of course. A duke would have to be mad to marry a woman like her—-and indeed, he’d only proposed an affair, with a discreet little house where they could meet until he tired of her. No matter how much she wanted him, that was something Sophie dared not risk. Creating and preserving her reputation had taken diligent effort and care. Losing it would be accomplished in the blink of an eye, and once it was gone, she would never get it back. She passed herself off as a widow in society, but if anyone dug too deeply, they would discover there had never been a Mr. Campbell, only a Miss Graham who somehow became a widow on the mail coach between Bath and London. They might discover that her only legacy was three hundred pounds left to her by Lady Fox, and that the four thousand pounds she had carefully accrued and invested in government consuls had been won from society gentlemen at hazard and whist.
Even though she sensed Jack would be generous, perhaps extravagantly so, to her if she became his mistress, it would only last as long as he wanted her. A mistress had no claim on her protector. Even worse, sooner or later he would marry someone else, a proper duchess, and then she would lose him entirely. Sophie refused to flirt with a married man, let alone carry on an affair with one.
She’d told him the truth: there was no other choice for her. Now that she was back in London, she must not only resume the plan, she must redouble her efforts, to make up for the setback it had suffered.
And that meant going back to Vega’s, facing the same people who had last seen her being swept out the door in Jack’s arm after that outrageous wager. Facing Philip, who would be angry—-and Giles Carter, who might well be disgusted. With a gusty sigh she slid down, letting the water wash over her head.
By the time the carriage reached Ware House, Jack had replayed the entire morning in his head several times, with the end result being that his mood was black and surly when he strode through the tall carved doors, held open by servants in spotless livery. His gaze fell on a maid, innocently going about her duties, and he scowled. Her plain dark blue dress was a match for the one Sophie had worn the first day at Alwyn House, and again last night when he made love to her on the sofa.