Jack was at breakfast when Wilson brought the first bit of bad news the following morning. “Your Grace, Mr. Percy is here.”

Percy ought to have been working diligently in the Ware mansion in Mayfair at this very moment. Percy knew his place, which meant there was only one explanation for the man’s presence at Alwyn. Jack closed the newspaper—­Wilson must have sent someone on horseback for it at dawn—­and stood.

“Where?”

“The morning room, Your Grace.”

Jack glanced at the door. Mrs. Campbell had not yet appeared. He was looking forward to seeing her far too much. “Has Mrs. Campbell awoken yet?”

“I believe so. Mrs. Gibbon has located some garments for the lady, but mentioned they would need some alteration.”

Of course; she had no clothes of her own. Jack breathed a bit easier, only now realizing he’d grown tense as the minutes ticked away and she didn’t appear. “Very good.” The butler nodded, throwing open the door as Jack strode out of the room and went to see his secretary.

Richard Percy stood in the morning room. He had obviously ridden from town, judging from the mud on his boots and his wet and bedraggled clothing. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing at Jack’s appearance. “I do beg your pardon for this ­intrusion—­”

“But Her Grace my mother is going out of her mind with worry,” Jack finished in a dry tone. “Is that it?”

“Yes, sir.” Percy’s expression eased.

Jack knew his mother’s worry didn’t spring from fears for his safety. In fact, it probably wasn’t worry at all, but anger. Since the moment he inherited, she had drummed it into him that he must be above reproach, morally, financially, and socially. Getting into a very scandalous, public wager with a woman at a gaming club would be just the thing to outrage her notions of propriety, and abruptly decamping for Alwyn House with that same woman would send her into a paroxysm of alarm.

For a moment he wondered what Philip had told their mother. Philip never could resist telling a good story, and the scene in Vega’s was unquestionably the most shocking thing Jack had done in the last several years. Of course, telling her would have required that Philip confess he was already playing at Vega’s again, explicitly breaking the promise he’d made in exchange for Jack paying his debt to Bagwell. Philip was not fond of confession.

Well. No doubt that would have been overshadowed by the duchess’s horror at Jack’s actions. It had never been much of a secret that the duchess preferred her second son, the one who took after her, while Jack—­the heir—­might as well have been solely his father’s son.

“You may assure Her Grace I am perfectly well, and will return to town when it suits me.”

“Will it be a long stay, Your Grace?” Percy backed up a step at Jack’s cool stare. “I ask only for my own knowledge, sir.”

“No,” he said curtly. “A few days only.”

“Of course.” Percy wet his lips, then took a sealed letter from his coat pocket and offered it. “Her Grace bid me deliver this.”

Jack took it without looking at it. “Wilson will have sent someone to prepare a room. Go get dry. You can return to London as soon as your mount is cared for. I trust you will be able to carry on in my absence for a few days.”

His secretary bowed and left. Jack cursed aloud in the empty room. His mother’s letter was like an anvil in his hand. He knew what it would say. Since the day he inherited his title, her constant refrain had been one of duty: he must remember his position as duke and moderate his behavior accordingly to honor his father and all the dukes who came before him.

He broke the seal and skimmed the letter. It was as expected, indignant and dismayed, concluding with a stern scolding that he had completely undermined his role as head of the family by engaging in the precise sort of behavior Philip must be persuaded to avoid. His brother, the duchess wrote, was humiliated and stunned by this reversal, and she hinted he would be impossible to govern from now on.

Jack’s mouth flattened at that charge. Philip was already impossible to govern, and it had nothing to do with Jack’s actions.

Worst, though, was the last paragraph. Not only was it most shocking that you would do such a thing, but you have left me open to acute embarrassment. I was counting on you to accompany me to the Benthams’ ball tonight; I presume from your absence you have forgotten and left me to send my regrets at an unpardonably late moment. Lady Stowe and her daughter will be in attendance, and both were anticipating your company. I had not thought you would abandon them so carelessly or hastily; your father would not be pleased . . .

That, Jack thought in irritation, was unfair. The Stowe family had been close to his for decades. The late earl had been his father’s dearest friend, and Lady Stowe and Jack’s mother were inseparable. It was both tragic and fitting that the same boating accident claimed the earl’s life and, after a week of illness, the duke’s, as well. On his deathbed, his father had begged Jack to see that Lady Stowe and her young daughter, Lucinda, were taken care of, and Jack had promised. In the seven years since, he had done everything for them the moment it was asked. He had never abandoned them.

It was true he’d forgotten about this particular ball. Normally he would have gone, if Lady Stowe and her daughter were to attend. Lucinda was making her debut this Season, and Jack knew his father would expect him to do anything he could to ensure she was a success among the ton. The last time he’d seen her, just after Christmas, she’d admitted she was nervous about it.

But his mother was not thinking of Lucinda’s nerves, she was trying to shame him into rushing back to London, something he had no intention of doing. Not only was he not accustomed to being coerced and shamed, he still hadn’t figured out what to do about Mrs. Campbell—­but he found her dangerously exhilarating, far more so than any ball.

He stuffed the letter into his pocket and took his time returning to the breakfast room. There was one sobering note of warning in it that he could not ignore. Of course Philip would discover a way to make him at fault, thereby deflecting any blame or reproach from himself. As long as the duchess believed Philip was more victim than scoundrel, she would continue making allowances for him instead of encouraging him to reform his ways. Perhaps Jack ought to open the account books and show his mother exactly how much he’d paid to settle Philip’s debts recently; he was certain Philip hadn’t told her. His father had believed it was not a woman’s place to see any accounting but the household expenditures she supervised, and that she should submit even those to her husband for approval. The late duke had treated his wife and younger son with an indulgence that left them both in ignorance of, and absolved of any responsibility for, the consequences of their actions. All of that had descended onto Jack, and the expectation that he would continue doing everything exactly as his father had done was beginning to wear.

Mrs. Campbell was seated at the table eating by the time he returned to the breakfast room. Today she wore a simple dress of dark green. He wondered where she’d got it, and then reminded himself that he ought not to be thinking about her clothing at all, as long as she was provided something decent. This dress, alas, had a slightly higher neckline than the housemaid’s dress of yesterday.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile at his entrance.

“Good morning.” He resumed his seat at the table. Somehow he must keep Percy from setting eyes on her. Percy had been his father’s man before his, and at times Jack suspected his loyalty was more to the dukedom than to the duke, whoever that fellow might be. Percy wasn’t blind, and if he reported that Jack had hared off to Alwyn House with a beautiful woman, it would inflame the duchess. Jack didn’t bother to think about why he cared. “Would you care to explore the attics today?”

She looked at him in amazement, and Jack realized how odd the question sounded. “You inquired about dungeons and torture chambers, neither of which Alwyn has. The attics would be the closest I can offer. The rain continues, which means we are stuck in the house. I am struggling for anything to pass the time.”

Her lips quirked in that sly smile he found so entrancing. “When you present it so appealingly, how could I miss the chance?”

They finished breakfast, and Jack told Wilson to fetch some lamps. He also murmured to his butler that nothing should impede Percy from returning to London as soon as possible. Then he headed toward the east wing with Mrs. Campbell at his side, unaccountably eager to exploring the dim, stuffy attics.

“What manner of things shall we find up here?” she asked as he opened the door leading to the attic stairs. A rush of warm stale air hit him in the face as he considered the question.

“In truth, I’m not sure. It’s been decades since I went up.”

She gathered her skirts and followed him up the stairs. “Another exploit with Philip?”

Jack grinned, glancing back. From this angle he could see down her bodice, and it almost made him miss a step and drop his lamp. “Er—­no,” he said, trying to remember the question. “Philip once got lost and took such a fright he refused to come up again.”

Her hands full of skirts, she looked up, her lips parted in surprise. “No!”

His mouth was dry. Perhaps this was a terrible idea. All he could think of now was being alone with her in the dark. She didn’t seem angry with him anymore, and it had been an eternity since he found any woman so tempting . . . “It became my hideaway after that,” he said, still distracted by her mouth and the plump curves of her breasts. “Free of mothers and younger brothers and any sort of lesson.”

“What did you discover up here?” She was a little out of breath, breathing harder than usual as she reached the top of the stairs. Covertly Jack watched the rise and fall of her bosom, straining the bonds of her drab green dress.

“Old furniture, mostly,” he said. Sofas and settees where one might seduce a woman properly. “With the odd suit of armor.”

“Oh my.” She stepped into the attics. The high mansard roof arched above, invisible in the darkness. The rain drummed down on the slate over their heads, not fiercely but steadily. Thanks to the leaden skies it wasn’t hot in the attics, but comfortably warm. “I see what you mean,” his guest exclaimed softly.

“Hmm?” She might have been a Madonna, reverently painted by an adoring artist, as she raised her face in awe toward the ceiling so far above them. Her skin glowed like gold in the light of his lamp.

“What a perfect hideaway!” She smiled broadly. “No one would ever find you. And as you said—­full of furniture. With a lantern, some biscuits, and a good book, who might not want to squirrel away on a lonely day?”

Jack thought of the decanters of brandy, not books, he’d brought up here to enjoy in secret. There was a good chance the bottles were still up here, where he’d carefully hidden them as a lad. He also thought of doing as she said, hiding away up here all day with her. “Er—­yes. Who would not?” He lifted the lamp higher and moved farther into the quiet attics.

They wandered slowly. Like the rest of Alwyn House, the attics were kept in good order, with furniture neatly ordered and stored by room. Mrs. Campbell discovered an ornate birdcage, and Jack was surprised to remember his grandmother’s parrot. “Possessed of a viciously sharp beak,” he said with a grimace.

She laughed. “That sounds like you put your fingers through the wires of the cage.”

“Why would you think that?” He studied the golden cage, still hanging from its stand. “I remember it being much larger than this. The parrot was enormous.”

“No wonder he bit,” she murmured. “Any creature trapped in a too-­small cage would lash out on those who caged him.”

“I didn’t cage him,” said Jack. “He left a scar.” He rubbed his thumb along his forefinger, where there was a faint mark from the bite.

She only smiled. “Imagine how the parrot felt. He was still confined to the cage.”

He gave her a sharp glance but she had walked on, her expression clear, already engrossed by a curious chair. Jack remembered that as well—­it had once been in the library—­and he showed her how to flip the seat up to turn the chair into a stepladder. That led them deeper into the attics until they reached the end of the east wing, and when Jack took out his watch, he was shocked to see they had spent hours rummaging in the dust. And most shocking of all, he would have sworn it had been only a few minutes.

“This is almost as intriguing as the house proper,” she said, sitting gingerly on the edge of an old, worn-­out settee tucked against the eaves. “It’s a history of your family.”

“Not quite.” Jack stepped over a trunk and opened one of the tall, narrow windows. It stuck after opening a few inches, but the fresh breeze felt deliciously cool. He could see the stables from here and wondered if Percy had left yet. “You’d have to go to Kirkwood Hall for that. It’s been in the family since before Henry Tudor took the crown.”

“Goodness! What a lot of history that must be.” She leaned toward the window, inhaling the rainy air.

“Due to a compulsion to save everything for future generations. A hundred years from now this attic floor will have broken down and collapsed under the weight of family history.”

She smiled, her gaze directed out the dust-­covered window. “Only think how fascinating your great-­grandchildren will find it.”

“To read my old Latin lessons? Unlikely.” He had found his and Philip’s old schoolbooks, neatly stacked in a desk he dimly remembered from the nursery quarters. Why anyone had kept those was beyond him.

“I don’t know,” she said wistfully. “They will see your portrait downstairs, pompous and regal. It might please them to no end to discover proof that you were once a boy with poor penmanship who had to write his Latin verbs over and over, just as they might have to do.”

Jack ignored the bit about his portrait being pompous. He leaned against a particularly ugly chest of drawers opposite the sofa she sat on. She wasn’t guarded now; her expression was nearly the same one she had worn yesterday when he asked about her mother. “It sounds like you’ve been that child.”

“I?” Her lips curved and she heaved a sigh. “No. My parents died when I was twelve. I have almost nothing left of either of them.” She hesitated, her gaze distant. “My father was disowned by his parents and I was never able to explore his family home. Everything of his youth was lost to me, but if I had the chance to read his old Latin lessons, to see what he drew in the margins, simply to have something of his . . . I would seize it.”

“Why?” She blinked, and Jack realized he’d asked the question rather stridently. He moderated his voice. “Why was your father disowned?”

“For marrying my mother.” She lifted her chin. “He never regretted it.”

Jack raised one brow. There had been something very like regret in her voice as she talked of the family history her father had lost by being disowned.

“He didn’t,” she insisted. “His father wanted him to marry a girl whose family lived nearby, someone he’d known since they were children. It would have been like wedding his sister, Papa used to say, and it would have given his father—­” She stopped, pressing her lips together. Her eyes flashed and she looked quite fierce, despite the smudge of dirt on her chin and the cobwebs on her borrowed dress.

Jack guessed she had no good opinion of that grandfather. “He was fortunate he was free to follow his heart.”

She looked at him sharply, but then her annoyed expression melted into one that was almost pitying. “He chose to follow his heart. It required certain sacrifices on his part, of course, but he accepted them as part of the bargain he’d made.”

“Commendable,” replied Jack. Her father hadn’t been the heir, then, at least not to any significant estate or title. No heir was permitted to follow his heart unless his heart led him to a lady of impeccable breeding and fortune. “But why was your mother so unacceptable to your grandfather?”

She drew breath to answer, then went still, her eyes focusing on him with renewed wariness. “She was French,” she said in the light tone he’d come to recognize as a diversionary tactic. Jack guessed there was more objection to her mother than being French, but he let it go. For now.

“Not Parisian, although I’ve no idea if that would have been better or worse. She came from Nice,” added Mrs. Campbell.

“One supposes it didn’t matter, given her inability to be the English girl who lived nearby.”

She laughed. “Precisely! And in all honestly, I don’t think there’s any pleasing my grandfather. He would have found something to disapprove of regardless of whom Papa married.”

“One of that sort, is he?”

“When I was a child, I nicknamed him the Ogre,” she replied with a cheeky wink.

Jack laughed even as he tucked the fact away in his mind. She’d said her parents died when she was twelve; had her grandfather done something on their deaths to earn her enmity? It wouldn’t be unheard-­of for a man to cast off an unwanted grandchild, particularly one from a marriage he had opposed. Perhaps Mrs. Campbell had learned to look out for herself from an early age. And then her husband appeared to have been a useless fellow as well, which would only have made her more independent. Who was this woman? Jack was beginning to wonder why she seemed to have no connections at all.

“Since you were not able to excavate your own family attics, I am pleased to offer you mine,” he said instead, making a half bow. “Your grandfather sounds much like my great-­grandfather.”

“The one who exiled his wife here?” She dusted a clean spot on the windowsill and rested her elbow against it as she settled more comfortably on the old settee. The breeze stirred the loose wisps of hair at her temple, almost as if a lover’s gentle fingers stroked it. “Why did he do that?”

“I don’t think he cared for her, nor she for him.” One tendril curled around her jaw, teasing the corner of her mouth. Jack was mesmerized by it, and in the dim attic felt at full liberty to stare.

“One wonders why either agreed to wed the other.”

He smiled without amusement. “It was an advantageous match for both. The Dukes of Ware don’t wed for trifling matters like affection.”

“No?” She seemed genuinely surprised, tilting her head to face him. “Never?”

Jack thought of Portia. He would have married her, as mad in love as he’d thought himself, and it would have been a disaster. “Not to my knowledge.”

“And here I thought a wealthy, powerful duke could do as he pleased, wed whom he chose, and no one could say him nay.” She shook her head in mock sadness. “Instead you’re required to wed a piece of land or a sum of money rather than a person.”

His mouth thinned in irritation. “Hardly required.”

“Oh.” She gazed at him, wide-­eyed. “Each generation chooses to marry for purely financial reasons, then.”

“I’ve not married anyone,” he said. “Obviously.” She lowered her eyes and smiled. Too late he realized she’d only been tweaking him. He let out his breath and stared out the window. He could just see her face from the corner of his eye. “I expect I have as much freedom to marry as you do.”

Her head came up. “What does that mean?”

Ah, a hit. He lifted one shoulder. “You’re an independent widow, able to do as you please and with no one to say you nay.”

“Except when I wish to go home,” she said with a pointed glance. “Do you think your ancestors were happy, wedding for dynastic reasons?”

“Happy? I have no idea. Satisfied? I believe so. One presumes they found . . . delight in other places.” He knew they had. His ancestors were fiendishly organized men, and Jack had seen the records of gifts for mistresses and lovers. His grandfather had kept a house in London specifically for trysts, with instructions to the housekeeper to turn the mattress and place fresh linens on the bed every day.

“My parents loved each other very much,” she said softly. “They found delight in each other. Perhaps more practical marriages would have yielded more wealth or property, but I believe nothing could have matched their happiness.”

“Is that what you want?”

She met his eyes. “Would you believe it if I said yes?”

“I—­” He stopped, remembering how he’d accused her of trying to attach a wealthy husband. “I would.”

For a moment she didn’t reply. Then a smile crossed her face, and her tone turned light again. “It would be wonderful, but that sort of match seems very rare.”

That didn’t answer the question. Not that it should matter to him who or why she married, so long as she didn’t set her sights on Philip. Which she’d already denied in convincing terms. So what sort of man was she looking for? Jack cleared his throat, wondering how the hell he’d got into this conversation anyway. “Shall we explore the other side of the house while the light is still good?”

She was on her feet before he finished the question. “By all means.”

Sophie thought she might be losing her mind. How on earth had she got into a discussion of love and marriage with the duke?

It must be the dark, warm atmosphere of the attics, softening her wits. Or perhaps it was the decades of family history all around her, something she had never had in her life and secretly craved. The thought of finding her mother’s childhood doll or her father’s first music book made her feel uncharacteristically sentimental. Surely that explained why she had told him, of all people, about her parents’ romantic but illicit marriage. Only Eliza and Georgiana knew about that, yet somehow she’d opened her mouth and told the Duke of Ware.

The eastern side of the attics were not as intriguing. Neat rows of crates and trunks lined the walls, and when she managed to pry open one crate, it turned out to hold pieces of metal, wrapped in flannels under the straw.

“A knight’s suit of armor and weaponry!” She held up one piece in triumph, a long rod with a wicked hook on one end. “How many enemies do you think your ancestors struck down with this? It looks like a spear.”

Ware looked astonished and came over for a closer look. He inspected the spear for a moment, then gave her a strange glance. “It’s an old fire fork. Unless our enemies were attempting to invade the house through the fireplace, I doubt it struck down anyone.”

She made a face and replaced the fire fork, which really ought to have been a spear. “How ordinary.”

He smiled. “I did warn you.”

That sapped any interest from opening more crates. Sophie surveyed the trunks nearest them. “What is this?” She touched a small silver badge hammered into the end of one.

The duke brought the lamp and stooped to see it. His shoulder brushed her elbow as he did, sending a charge through her that went right down to her toes. She drew back, unconsciously rubbing the spot. She would have retreated more but there was no room—­she was stuck with her back against the crates and his broad shoulders and golden head right in front of her, almost on his knees at her feet. Right at the perfect level for her to plow her fingers into the rumpled waves of his hair.

Horrified, she forced her eyes up to stare fixedly at the rafters above them. He was a sinfully handsome man. He was being very kind today, indulging her interest in rummaging through old furniture. Before she could stop them, Georgiana’s words pattered through her mind about making one of the gentlemen she met at Vega’s fall in love with her, and she couldn’t help remembering that she had met Ware at Vega’s.

She had kept the men she wagered with at arm’s length for the most part; she didn’t want to marry an avid gambler. But the Duke of Ware was not a gambler at all. Nor was he the cold, boring drudge Philip had described. He was almost unbearably attractive, particularly when he smiled, and he was attracted to her. And her body was suddenly warming to the idea of flirting with him up here in this shadowy private world where only the two of them existed . . .

“My grandmother’s monogram,” he said, making her start. “The W for Wilhelmina beneath the ducal coronet.” He rose to stand beside her. “She was a capital rider,” he remarked. “Even in her old age she kept an excellent stable.”

Sophie was endeavoring to ignore how his arm was right next to hers, and how she would be practically in his arms if she made a quarter turn to her left. “Wilhelmina,” she said, seizing on any distraction. “What an unusual name.”

“Her father was a Prussian archduke. The marriage was arranged because my great-­grandfather thought it would curry favor with George II if his son wed a bride from Hanover.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

He sighed in exasperation. “Yes, it was arranged for political advantage. But I do believe they were fond of each other, and my grandfather never exiled her anywhere. In fact, he indulged her a great deal. Her horses were imported from the finest stables in Europe.”

“A veritable love match,” she said. “I feel vastly relieved to know it, for their sakes.”

He gave her an exasperated glance. “Must everyone have a love match?”

“Of course not. People are free to marry for misery, or for money, or for any reason they choose.”

“I suppose you would know,” he said. “Having been married.”

Right—­the mythical Mr. Campbell. During her long trip on the mail coach from Bath to London three years ago, Sophie had created an entirely new history for herself, including a sadly deceased husband. In her mind, Mr. Campbell had been tall and thin, a bit sickly but kind, a scholarly man who could be lamented but not really missed. She told people he was Scottish but had an American mother, to deter any questions about his family.

But the duke didn’t need to know any of that. “The vicar doesn’t quiz you on your reasons for marriage,” she said lightly. “As long as the banns have been called properly, he reads the ceremony.”

“You must have been very young.”

Sophie’s smile grew fixed. “Young but not naive.”

“I presume it was a love match.” Even in the lamp light, his eyes were so very blue and vivid. “Since your parents had such a blissful union.”

She turned away. “I told you before—­that sort of marriage is rare.” Rare, and not without cost. Her Grand Plan was to find a sensible, kind man of sufficient income. Someone she could be fond of, but not someone she fell in love with. Someone very like her imaginary Mr. Campbell, as it happened. As much as Sophie longed for the devotion and adoration her parents had shared, she wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to follow her passion as they had done. Could she give up everything for a man, even a man who loved her? Could she resign herself to scraping for money to pay the butcher, the landlord, the doctor? Her parents had loved each other deeply, but it had cost them—­and in the end, it had cost Sophie, as well.

“What is in these trunks?” she asked to divert him. “There are so many.”

The duke’s gaze lingered on her; he knew she had dodged his question, and for some reason he seemed disappointed. He cared to know her answer. “Clothing, most likely.” He pulled out the trunk with the elaborate engraved W on the end and undid the latches.

Inside lay a cloud of silver paper, then layers of soft linen. Gently Sophie lifted the wrappings aside and gasped at the gown that lay below. It was cloth of gold, lavishly embroidered with pearls and dripping with lace. “May I?” She glanced at the duke in question, and he nodded. Carefully she lifted it up, speechless at the exquisite work. It still sparkled and shone, some six decades after it would have been fashionable. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Stunningly beautiful!”

She wanted to take the gown out of the trunk and hold it in the sun. She yearned for a mirror to hold it in front of herself and imagine, for one brief moment, that it was hers. She glanced at the duke from beneath her eyelashes; he had propped one elbow on the topmost trunk and stood watching her, relaxed but attentive. Perhaps what she really wanted was to pretend that in a gown like this, she’d be a worth a duke’s attention . . .

“Perhaps there are some benefits to marrying for wealth and position,” murmured the duke wryly.

She flashed a reproachful glance at him. “I never said there were none.” She just didn’t think they were worth the risk. Reverently she laid the dress back in its wrappings, tucking the coverings securely around it. “It’s a treasure chest,” she said as she closed the lid.

“That looks like her court presentation gown. There’s a portrait of her wearing it at Kirkwood Hall in Somerset.”

Another repository of family history. “She must have looked like the bride of Apollo.”

“Surely you jest. Apollo would be a mundane husband for a Duchess of Ware,” he said with a straight face. Sophie blinked, then burst out laughing. The duke did, too, his face easing into an expression of warm familiarity. He pushed the trunk back into place. “Do you wish to open more?”

Part of her did, to see what other treasures were hidden up here, but she tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear and made a face as her fingers came away sticky with cobwebs. “Unless one of the trunks contains a ghost, ready to rise from her rest and rattle chains for our entertainment, I suppose not. Surely we’ve dislodged enough dust for one day.” She brushed at her skirt, belatedly realizing a disadvantage to exploring the attics. She was a mess.

“Alas, another thing Alwyn cannot supply—­ghosts,” he said in mock chagrin. “Or if there are any about, they must be very quiet ones.” He cocked his head. “I never suspected women could be so ghoulish.”

“Well.” She waved one hand. “Discovering beautiful clothing is even better than finding a ghost.”

He grinned and looked around. “I suspect there’s enough packed away here to clothe the entire court of St. James.”

She thought of her own modest wardrobe in London—­now reduced by one bright crimson dress. Mrs. Gibbon had brought it back this morning, stained to the knee, saying there was nothing more they could do for it. The green dress Sophie wore today was another cast-­off from one of the maids, she suspected, and now it was covered in grime. Alwyn House had more clothes, of higher quality, than she did.

“If it’s all as fine as that gown, I consider it a crime to leave it packed away,” she said. “Are your grandfather’s ermine-­trimmed robes here, as well?”

The duke did not reply. There was a very odd look on his face as he studied her. He reached out and drew his fingers across her cheek, lingering for a moment. Sophie couldn’t move; she could hardly breathe. The touch of his fingers on her skin, stroking, the way a man might do to a woman he loved, had ignited that terrible feeling again—­the strange pull she felt toward him, and the wholly unwanted longing for him to plunge his hands into her hair and pull her against him and ravish her against these old trunks . . .

He took his hand away and flicked his fingers. “Cobwebs,” he said, his voice deep and rough.

Her face burned. She was suffering pangs of desire and he was noticing how filthy she was. Mad, mad, mad, she scolded herself. “The perils of exploring!” She swiped roughly at her dress with both hands. “I should wash . . .”

The duke made a noise, low in his throat. “You’re a very unusual woman, Mrs. Campbell.”

More than you know, Sophie thought uneasily. She summoned a carefree smile. “I choose to accept that as a compliment, Your Grace.”

He dragged his eyes up to hers, and she went hot all over at the realization he’d been watching her try to brush the dust from her bodice. “Good,” he said in the charged silence. “I meant it as one.” And with that he picked up the lamp and headed for the door, leaving her to follow with a pounding heart.