My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(65)



Jack might ignore the marriage mart on his own behalf, but he knew perfectly well how it worked. A man like Carter was an eligible match, especially for a woman who seemed to have no family or connections and a reputation that balanced precariously on the edge of respectability. He knew Sophie had secrets; he told himself he had no right to demand them. For a brief affair at Alwyn House he could ignore that, but now . . . he wanted more, of everything about her. Her company, her time, her attention, her trust.

How was he to persuade her to give him more?

The carriage stopped near Ware House, and he stepped down and paid the driver. The wheels clattered loudly on the cobbles as the hack drove away through the quiet night, and he walked the rest of the way home.

Even at this hour, a servant was waiting for him, ready to sweep open the door as he climbed the steps. Jack shed his coat and hat and sent the footman off to bed. For a moment he lingered in the silent hall. The house was as quiet as a tomb at this time of night. Restlessly he picked up the lamp and walked the corridors, finally turning into his study. He poured a glass of brandy but abandoned it after one sip. What was Sophie hiding?

He’d already guessed she was gambling to build a fortune. It wasn’t above reproach, but neither was it criminal.

He suspected she was on the hunt for a husband. As were so many other women in London.

Nicholas Dashwood warned him off speaking to her. Yet she found him and invited him home with her, breaking her own decree that they mustn’t see each other.

But there must be something lacking in his understanding. If she wanted a fortune, she had only to ask and he’d lavish her with luxury. She must know that; he’d offered to give her a house. Instead, she asked for his promise not to speak of their affair at Alwyn House nor even to see her again . . . only to take him back into her bed tonight. He was already mad for her, but this might drive him to Bedlam.

Was this all a great scam? Had he fallen into the hands of a truly skilled schemer and swindler? A woman in need of money, casting out lures to men she gambled with, rejecting the men who didn’t have independent fortunes, making love to him and then declaring their affair over, but conveniently circumventing any obstacles between them when it suited her? Her every action had only made him want her more; had that been her intent? Was he being drawn into a pursuit where he was unwittingly the hunted instead of the hunter? Was he about to be used and humiliated again by a woman?

With a flinch he swore and ran both hands over his head. He was doing it again, seeing shades of Portia where there probably were none. What an idiot he would be if he let her haunt him forever. In truth, he hadn’t thought much about her in recent years. But here he was, suddenly ascribing the same motives and intentions to Sophie, on very slim evidence.

The key was in his desk. It took him a minute to find it, but then he turned to the large chiffonier between the windows. He set the lamp nearby, turning up the flame, and unlocked the top cabinet. It took a few minutes to find the miniature. It was smaller than he remembered, the delicate silver frame a bit tarnished after all these years. Jack held it by the flickering lamp and stared at the face of his first love.

She looked so young. In his memory she was a woman, as beautiful and deceptive as Eve, but in this tiny portrait she looked barely more than a girl. It surprised him. He tilted the frame and studied her round cheek, her tiny rosebud mouth, her golden curls. He’d been taken with her almost at first sight, and thought the same had happened for her. She welcomed his attention, smiled at everything he said, even let him kiss her. Being with her was not like being with other young ladies, who were all too obviously sizing him up as a potential husband. Portia didn’t seem to care two farthings for that.

She’d seemed perfect: beautiful, vivacious, unconventional. She liked horse races and art. She learned Russian instead of French, like most young ladies, because she read about the czar’s court and found it more interesting. She was every bit of his class and the world he knew, and she still managed to be a breath of fresh air. Jack’s father approved of her, and Portia’s parents actively encouraged him. Somewhat to his surprise, Jack found himself agreeing with all of them that he probably ought to marry her. He even fancied himself in love.

That was when she eloped with another man. One night she danced three times with him at a ball, causing a flurry of whispers and expectations, and the next day she slipped out the back of a milliner’s shop while buying bonnets with her maid and into a waiting carriage to flee northward. Only later did he learn that she’d had a secret, unsanctioned engagement to a rising naval officer all the time she’d been flirting with him. Her father, the Earl of Farnsworth, disapproved, and maneuvered to have the young man sent away to sea. He told his daughter to find someone more appropriate. Portia found Jack and used him for her purpose: fooling her parents while she made plans to run away with her lover to Scotland, where she could marry him without banns or her father’s permission.

She begged his pardon in the note she left behind, but it took little time for Jack to hear the whole truth. She had never cared for him at all. In her eyes, he was an idle young man who would become an idle old man waiting to inherit his title. There was a war going on, and her naval officer was already famous for a daring raid on a Spanish port. Portia saw herself sailing the world with him, a decorated hero and fearless adventurer. She’d scoffed with her friends about how no one would ever know Jack’s name; he’d be nothing but a numeral in the line of Dukes of Ware. She wanted a man of action, not someone who would inherit everything that made him desirable.

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