My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(87)

Her face burned. “Like who?” she tried to ask innocently, but Philip’s expression had changed. He leaned back on the sofa and gave her a weary look.

“I know there’s something between you and Ware. He gave himself away the other night, when I told him he ought to leave you be.”

Sophie said nothing. She couldn’t speak.

“I understand why you want it kept quiet,” Philip went on. “And I don’t begrudge you taking up with him, by the by. You’re certainly not the first to spot a chance and try for it. But you’ve got a kind heart and a sensible head, and . . . well, I care about you, even if you won’t flirt with me and win my money anymore. Trying to capture Ware’s heart is a fool’s game.”

She wanted to slap his face for saying such things about Jack. But what do you know? she reminded herself. This was why she’d sought him out. “Good heavens, Philip, you make me sound like a hunter and your brother my prey.”

He snorted. “More than one woman has felt that way about him! He’s so damned aloof, and women find that infuriatingly appealing . . . But Ware hasn’t got a heart anymore. He fell in love years ago—-wildly, exuberantly, you’d never know it was the same man—-and the girl jilted him. She ran off with a war hero or some such fellow, and he never got over it.”

Years ago, she wanted to repeat. If Jack still nursed a broken heart, he never showed her any sign of it. “Surely a duke must marry, to have an heir.” She shouldn’t have started this conversation. Philip was in a mood to talk, but he wasn’t helping her, and was only making things worse. Jack had never mentioned another love.

“Oh, he’ll marry,” replied Philip with a snort. “But for duty, not for frivolous reasons.”

Frivolous reasons like love. Her hands shook until she squeezed them together in her lap. “I heard a rumor,” she said, her voice as careless as possible. “About him and Lady Lucinda Afton. That they’ve been engaged for some time.” The words were like ashes in her mouth, but she had to know . . .

Philip glanced at her, his eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “You heard that? Well, well. He promised our father on his deathbed that he would take care of her forever. As I said, duty. One feels a bit of sympathy for Lucinda, but she’ll make it her own, being a duchess. She’s a clever girl, and as a child she always knew her mind.”

And just like that, he robbed her of breath. Sophie swayed in her seat and had to clutch the cushion to keep her balance. She raised her stricken gaze to Philip, who was watching her with all--too--knowing eyes. “Are you certain?”

“My mother says they’ll be wed by the end of this year,” he said. “Lucinda’s mother wanted her to have a Season first.”

She’s only eighteen, echoed Georgiana’s voice in her head. “Does he love her?” she asked, clutching at straws.

“Lucinda?” Philip looked surprised. “I doubt it. The men in my family—-the heirs, anyway—-make prudent marriages, Sophie. Always have, probably always will.” He gave her a sympathetic glance. “That never stopped any of them from having plenty of mistresses and lovers on the side, but when they marry, it’s for power and for money. I would have warned you earlier, if I’d been allowed to speak to you. I suppose I see now why he forbade me doing that.”

Her heart was pounding erratically, and her head felt light and dizzy. She might be ill. Jack had said as much to her—-the Dukes of Ware don’t marry for love—-but then he’d said she was everything he wanted in his wife. He’d asked her to marry him. Who was wrong? Georgiana, who had seen Jack laughing arm in arm with Lady Lucinda? Philip, who knew things about his brother and his family she couldn’t possibly know? Or Sophie, who had broken her own rules time after time—-making love to Jack, carrying on with their affair after they returned to London, losing her heart to him, even falling for his shocking proposal of marriage?

“Thank you, Philip,” she said unsteadily. “It has been illuminating.”

“Sophie.” He caught her hand as she rose. “I know I behaved like a nodcock earlier—-jealousy of Ware for having had you to himself, even if not by your choice.” He tried to smile but stopped as she stared at him, probably looking like wild--eyed Ophelia in her madness. “I apologize, and swear to you it won’t happen again. Can we be friends once more?”

She tugged free of his hold. “Perhaps.” No, she wanted to cry—-not when his face would always remind her of Jack’s. “Pardon me—-” She turned and hurried away, barely keeping her expression composed. She slipped into the first empty room she came to, closing the door behind her and sagging against it.

The air burned in her lungs. Oh God. Had she really been such a fool? Had she really thought her luck had changed so dramatically? From counting cards and playing for guineas to being the Duchess of Ware? “Idiot,” she whispered to herself. She should have known when Jack—-Ware—-kept looking at her bare legs that first night at Alwyn House. It hadn’t been love or marriage on his mind. Lady Fox had warned her about that: when a man wants a woman he shouldn’t have, he becomes a dangerous creature, she’d said.

But Sophie, foolishly, fell for everything because she’d wanted him. And for those few glorious days, she’d thought he was hers.