My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(60)

Before she could stop herself, Sophie stole another glance into the vingt--un room. Jack was speaking to another man, one shoulder elegantly propped against the wall. He smiled slightly at whatever his companion said, and glanced her way. For the briefest second their gazes connected, with the same lightning--sharp jolt of awareness that she’d felt at Alwyn House. The world seemed to fall away for that second, leaving just the two of them, two complementary pieces of one whole. I’m in love with him, Sophie thought with blank surprise.

Then Jack looked away, his expression unchanged. Sophie made herself do the same, turning back to Giles Carter. “If you’re asking if I harbor hopes of attaching the Duke of Ware,” she said evenly, “the answer is no. The very thought defies disbelief. His presence here is very much a surprise to me. The last thing I want to do is cause another scene and revive any unpleasantness. I am thoroughly aware of how rashly I acted that evening, and have resolved never to do so again.”

Mr. Carter listened attentively. Sophie’s heart twisted; he was a good man, one for whom she had hoped to develop true affection. If Philip hadn’t been so stubborn . . . if Jack hadn’t swept in, furious and out of patience . . . if she hadn’t lost her temper and given in to the temptation of winning all that money . . . She would probably still be doing her best to flirt with Mr. Carter and bring him up to scratch. He met all of her husband requirements, and she genuinely liked him.

But he was not Jack, and he never would be. Those few fleeting days at Alwyn House had changed something inside her, like clay being fired in a kiln, and she couldn’t go back to the way she was before. She didn’t have it in her to deceive Mr. Carter any more than she had room in her heart for anyone but Jack. Perhaps in time that would relent, but for now . . .

She made herself smile. “You asked how I have changed. I believe I’ve become more calculating. Tonight I feel like winning a great deal of money, and I like you far too much to make you my prey. Shall we say farewell until a more genial evening?”

His face eased, and he even laughed. “I might say that’s proof you hold me in high regard,” he teased. “Warning me away to spare my purse—-and my pride!”

“The very highest regard, sir!” She tapped his arm with her fan. “Although you do lose so graciously . . .”

“Only to you.” He offered his arm. Sophie took it and let him lead her to the faro tables. Whist was too tame after all; tonight she did feel restless and reckless, and damn anyone who got in her path.

Her luck held through the evening. By the time the clock chimed two, she had won a tidy sum, just over one hundred pounds. She should have been pleased, and instead she only felt drained. It was time to go home. She bade her companions good--night and headed to the reception hall to send for her cloak and have Forbes summon a hackney.

The hall was quiet at this time of night. Vega’s doors were open until dawn, but most people who meant to play tonight were already in the main salon. The hardened gamesters in search of excitement had usually departed for more depraved haunts by now, and the competition for hackneys at this end of St. Martin’s was minimal. The front door stood open, and a fresh breeze swept through the elegant hall as she entered. Sophie took a deep breath gratefully. “Mr. Forbes,” she began, approaching the tall fair--haired man with his back to her.

He swung around. She stopped in her tracks with a gasp. It was not the major--domo.

Jack’s face was as still as marble. “Mrs. Campbell.”

Of course. She mustn’t know him and he mustn’t know her. “Your Grace,” she murmured, dipping a curtsy. “I beg your pardon.”

“Forbes has stepped out to summon a hackney. They seem in short supply in this street.” His tone was cool and remote—-ducal.

She flushed. “Yes, they often are.”

They stood in awkward silence for a minute. She longed to say something to him, anything, but didn’t dare. All it would take was one overheard word, one sign of connection, and the rumors would roar back to life. And yet . . . standing here so near him was almost more than she could bear, especially tonight.

Fortunately Mr. Forbes stepped back inside, his brows rising at the sight of her. “Mrs. Campbell! Are you in want of a hackney?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once. “I’ll send for one immediately. Your carriage is waiting outside, Your Grace.” He motioned to Frank, the servant in charge of the cloakroom who was just hurrying back into the hall with a greatcoat over one arm and a hat in the other hand—-Jack’s, no doubt. “Fetch Mrs. Campbell’s cloak,” Forbes told him.

Jack shrugged into his coat and took his hat from Frank. “Nonsense,” he said coolly. “The lady must take the hackney.”

Forbes bowed. “As you wish, sir. I shall summon another at once.”

“No.” Jack set the hat on his head. “I find that I am in want of some fresh air. I shall walk.”

Sophie kept her chin up, but her gaze carefully away from his face. “That is very kind of you, sir.”

He tipped his head in regal acknowledgment as he tugged on his gloves. Without another word or glance he strode out into the night. Sophie inhaled sharply as the breeze swirled around him, carrying the faintest whiff of his shaving soap back to her.

“Are you well?” asked Forbes, watching her far too closely. “Was His Grace importunate?”