My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(57)

He reclaimed her mouth, coaxing her to open to him. She moaned, and he urged her back a step, then another, until they reached the desk. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her, heedless of the papers being disarranged. His stomach flexed in eagerness and anticipation as her knees rose beside his hips. Five endless days . . .

Jack caught her knee, hiking it up to his waist so he could move fully between her thighs. Sophie arched her back, and her fingers dug into his nape, urging him on. Still kissing her deeply, he flicked open the top button of her prim dress, then another, then another, until he felt the top edge of her corset under his fingertips.

This was madness. They had said their farewells, knowing it was madness, and still he wanted her, more than ever, more than he cared for the dignity of his father’s house, the obligation of his title, the fact that the door was unlocked. He needed her. Jack ignored every argument against it and bent his head to press his lips to the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat. She whispered his name again, clutching his head to her with one hand and bracing herself with the other hand.

The tap at the door sounded like a clap of thunder. Sophie gave a violent start, almost toppling over, and seized his shoulders to catch herself. “Stop,” she gasped. “We can’t—-I have to go.”

Jack held her a moment longer, resenting the interruption, but another knock sounded. He felt the weight of duty drop heavily back onto his shoulders, and he pushed himself away from the desk. Sophie slid off, frantically buttoning her dress. Her face was flushed with desire, and her mouth still looked soft and inviting, and he had to step back and turn away to master himself and put down the urge to bolt the door and make love to her on the sofa, on the desk, on the damn floor if necessary.

“I will see to Philip,” he said, breathing hard. His body ached with frustration. “He shan’t bother you again.”

“Thank you.” Her buttons done, she retrieved her bonnet. With jerky motions she tied the ribbons. Before she flipped the veil over her head, she glanced at him, filled with longing and regret. “I wish I hadn’t had to trouble you—-”

“You must not apologize for coming to me.” He managed a tight smile. “Never.”

“I won’t,” she murmured. She pulled the veil down, and her hands shook. Even that sent a charge through him; if he had bolted the door and carried her to the sofa, she would have welcomed it.

He walked ahead of her to the door, opening it to see his butler waiting. “Yes?” he snapped.

“Her Grace your mother requires an urgent word with you, sir,” said Browne, his face impassive.

Jack’s jaw tightened. Browne never would have disturbed him on his own; he was an excellent butler. That meant his mother had forced him to do it, to knock not once but twice on his study door. Of course, his mother could only have known about his visitor if Browne had told her, which made the butler complicit. “I will see her later,” he said coldly, and turned his back in dismissal. “Come, madam,” he said to Sophie, hovering uncertainly. “Let me escort you out.” He offered his arm and walked her through the house.

Neither said a word. The last time they parted, they had both thought it was forever. He’d watched her go that time with despair. But this time . . .

When they reached the door, she dropped a quick curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured, and then she was gone, hurrying without a backward glance out the door held open by the footman.

Jack watched her go. Seeing her again had torn off the veneer of resignation and obligation. He had acted to save Philip, both by whisking Sophie away and then again when he gave her up.

But his brother couldn’t leave anything be, nor heed any warning. After all Jack had done to fulfill what was expected of him, he was damned if he wouldn’t do something for himself now. He turned to the servant. “Send for my horse.”



He was shown in almost at once, despite the early hour and the fact that the club was not open to guests. Dashwood was hurriedly shrugging into his jacket when the manager opened the door. Jack strode in. “I understand my brother has been at your tables again,” he said without preamble.

Dashwood paused, then gave his jacket one last jerk into place. “I don’t discuss my members’ habits.”

Jack leveled a stony look at him. “It was not a question.”

“He is still a member,” said Dashwood in oblique acknowledgment.

“He is still wagering and losing vast sums of money at your establishment—-money he does not have, and will not receive from me.” Jack tilted his head. He’d thought very carefully about how to approach Vega’s owner. “I believe your rule is ‘pay your debts.’ ”

“It is.”

“I am warning you that my brother will soon be unable to pay any debts. Cut him off. Revoke his membership.”

A humorless smile crossed Dashwood’s face. “Then he’ll have to deal with the consequences, as a gentleman.”

He hadn’t expected Dashwood would agree to that, but it had to be attempted. “Then admit me to your club.”

The other man blinked, his only sign of surprise. “There is a procedure, Your Grace . . .”

“Which you can circumvent at will, I have no doubt—-as the owner.”

Slowly Dashwood nodded, obviously doing some rapid thinking. His face seemed to grow hard and cold for a moment, and Jack had the feeling he was seeing the real Dashwood, not the debonair club owner who mingled with his wealthy patrons. He was counting on that man to see the benefit of admitting the Duke of Ware.