Sophie apologized profusely to Mrs. Gibbon for the state of the riding habit after she changed, but the housekeeper waved it off.

“His Grace wanted you to wear it, and what good was it doing anyone in a trunk?” She collected the damp, mud-­spattered habit and headed for the door. “I’m to tell you dinner will be ready shortly, and you may go down when you wish.”

“Oh,” she said in surprise, but the housekeeper was gone, leaving her alone in the room. She stepped in front of the tall cheval mirror to make certain she was as neat as could be in the housemaid’s cast-­off dress. For a moment she thought of the fine gowns that must be lying in wrappings just above her head. If she could borrow a riding habit, perhaps she could borrow another dress . . .

No. She firmly put that thought from her head. Those were not her clothes, they were the duke’s. Just because he allowed her to borrow a riding habit didn’t mean he wanted to see her in one of those fine gowns upstairs. And as for herself . . . She was five kinds of fool for wanting to look attractive tonight, when she was already suffering from an overwhelming temptation to flirt with Ware.

She drew herself up in front of the mirror. “Remember yourself,” she said sternly to her reflection. She was not a duchess, and she didn’t deserve to wear their clothes any more than she ought to consider letting the duke seduce her. It was a good thing the rain had stopped and she would be returning to London soon, where she would go back to her ordinary life and Ware would resume his very elegant one. She gave her skirt one more tug to smooth a wrinkle, then turned and went down to dinner.

They dined, as they had every night, in the breakfast room. It had a different feel by candlelight, and tonight it felt even more intimate. The names, she decided; he called her Sophie, as she had impulsively invited him to do. And she called him Ware, marveling every time that she was on friendly terms with a duke.

After dinner they wandered through the house idly. Ware showed her a few more of his drawings, tucked away in odd corners of the gallery. He was so charmingly modest about them, calling them his scribblings when she thought they were quite good. There was one of a horse—­“the best jumper in all of Britain,” he said—­and one of Kirkwood Hall, his main estate in Somerset. It looked like a palace from the time of the Tudors, and was every bit as intimidating as she had expected a duke’s home would be. Now at last she saw why he called Alwyn his favorite of all his houses; the rest of his houses were actual castles.

But she could listen to him talk about it forever. There was something different about his voice now. At first it had been cool and remote, as elegant and aristocratic as could be. Over the last two days, he had become warmer, more animated. He laughed at her teasing instead of giving her a stern look. At first she’d thought he was affronted—­as she had intended—­but now she thought it was because he wasn’t arrogant and dull, and he didn’t like her thinking him so. Every now and then she caught him giving her a roguish glance. What had he been like as a young man? she wondered. And what might have happened had she met him then?

Eventually they ended up in the library. By now it was also Sophie’s favorite room in the house. She sank gratefully onto the sofa, lounging inelegantly on the silk upholstery. “That was a glorious day,” she announced. “You must watch carefully, or I shall be tempted to steal Minnie from your stables.”

He had followed more slowly, but now came around the sofa and took the chair. “She would run back the first time you took her out, to rejoin Maximillian.”

Sophie laughed. “Ah yes, her true love.”

“I understand one should not interfere with it in any way.” He set down two glasses and wrapped a towel around the top of the bottle he held.

Sophie sat up, eyes on the bottle. “Is that champagne?”

“Indeed.” He uncorked it, filled the two glasses, and handed her one. The bubbles fizzing gently against the crystal. “Wilson says the roads are drying well. The carriage is repaired. If the sun is out tomorrow, we can return to London.”

“Oh!” She took a sip, then another. “That’s lovely,” she whispered.

He looked amused. “Have you never had it?”

“Oh no.” She drank some more, reveling in the cool crisp wine. “Far too elegant for my usual haunts.”

“Then we shall have two bottles.” He leaned back in his chair. “In celebration of the repaired carriage.”

And their impending return to London. Sophie raised her glass in salute and drank some more, reminding herself that it was what she’d been demanding for three days. Now that the moment was at hand, she felt none of the relief she had anticipated. Back in London, there would be no more playing cards with the duke, or riding in the rain, or exploring dusty attics. She would go back to the gambling tables, carefully squirreling away shillings and pounds either as a fortune to help her get a husband, or to purchase an annuity to sustain her into old age. She would have tea every fortnight with her friends, listening to Georgiana wax euphoric about Lord Sterling’s charm and to Eliza fret about her father’s determination that her enormous dowry must attract a noble husband.

Her lips curved at the thought of her friends. How it would amaze them if they knew she was here with a duke, reclining on a sofa in his country mansion and drinking champagne with him.

But her smile faded. She could hardly tell them about this—­indeed, if gossip had spread despite Mr. Dashwood’s rule to the contrary, she might not be permitted to see her friends again. Mr. Cross was indulgent and fond of her, but even he would draw the line if he feared Sophie’s reputation would tarnish Eliza’s. And Georgiana’s chaperone had only agreed to their regular teas with reluctance in the first place. One whiff of scandal about Sophie’s name and Lady Sidlow would be furious.

No, back in London her life would not be completely the same.

She turned her head to study Ware. He was watching her, and when their eyes connected, a little shock raced through her. All his aloof reserve had vanished; she had thought him implacable and stern, but now it seemed like that had been another man. He sprawled as easily in the chair as she lay on the sofa, his chin propped in one hand and the glass of champagne dangling from the fingertips of his other hand.

“It will be strange to go back to London after this,” she said.

“Very,” he agreed.

“No doubt in a few days’ time it will all seem like a dream. A holiday from the world and its cares.”

He made a soft noise of agreement. Sophie finished her glass of champagne, and he leaned forward to refill it. “Are you still eager to return?”

She settled more comfortably on the sofa. Her answer at the moment was a resounding no. This moment, right now, was almost perfect. But this moment could not last, and the fact that she wanted it to last meant it was past time to go home. “Of course,” she said. “One does what one must.”

“Hmm.” He slouched deeper into his chair. “You stopped demanding I take you back at once.”

“I’m not a fool,” she said pertly. “With a broken carriage axle and never-­ending rain, I acknowledge that returning at once was beyond even the Duke of Ware.”

He smiled. “Yet now the happy moment is approaching, and you aren’t dancing with joy.”

No. Not only was she less than eager to face the consequences, she was finally admitting to herself that she had enjoyed these few days.

With him. Because of him.

“You said you didn’t expect to win that wager,” she said softly, staring up at the ceiling. It was covered with elaborate scrollwork in gold, with a frieze of mythological beings cavorting around the edges. The chandelier of cut crystal glittered in the lamplight. That ceiling was probably worth more than her entire house. “Why did you propose it?”

He pushed himself upright in his chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked down at her. His golden hair was rumpled into waves that made her long to smooth them. “Haven’t you guessed?”

She angled her face toward him. “Tell me. I’m no good at guessing.”

He let out his breath, his eyes shadowed, and then he bent and kissed her. His mouth was soft, a gentle hint of a kiss rather than a real one. Her eyes drifted closed as his lips whispered over hers, and she moved toward him like a flower seeking the sun. His fingertips touched her jaw, angling her face with the slightest perceptible pressure. A soft sound of pleasure hummed in her throat.

The duke lifted his head. For a moment they stared at each other. “Is that all?” Sophie whispered, belatedly realizing how her heart was thudding. “All you want?”

“No.” He traced one finger, as lightly as a feather, down her throat. A shiver rippled over her skin, and her nipples hardened as his gaze swept over her. “Not by a tenth.”

She was in no condition to face this decision. Alone with him for three full days, exposed to his dry humor and surprising humanity and unbearable attractiveness, she was virtually defenseless when his gaze connected with hers again, this time hot with hunger. She should think of her reputation, already perilously uncertain after that wager; she should think of Philip, who would view it as a betrayal by both of them. She should think of Giles Carter, who was her best chance for a respectable marriage. She should think of herself, and how she would feel if she succumbed to this strangely potent desire for a man who would never fall in love with her.

But when she opened her mouth—­“Show me,” she whispered. “Please.”

His answering smile was slow and hungry, as if some sort of fire had roared to life inside him, and Sophie felt it all the way to her toes. He had chipped away at her guard by taking her riding, by showing her his house, by letting her tempt him into being silly and then laughing at himself. She had begun to like him, far more than she’d thought possible. But when he looked at her like this, with desire and passion sharpening his features, everything inside her ignited into a simmering lust.

She could blame it on the rain, or the roads, or even the champagne, but the truth was she wanted the Duke of Ware. She wanted him to take her to bed and make love to her over and over until she couldn’t remember anything other than the touch of his hands and mouth on her body. She wanted him to make her feel wanted, as desperately as she wanted him.

This time his mouth was firm, demanding. He tipped her chin until her lips parted, and then his tongue invaded, conquering. She went down without a fight, reaching up to push her fingers into his hair and hold him to her as she kissed him back. His fingers slid down her throat to her neckline, along the edge of the fabric until she squirmed and writhed with longing for him to rip it right down the middle and ravish her.

She twisted on the sofa, straining to be closer. His arms went around her, and dimly she felt the sharp tug of buttons being undone. Her bodice came loose, and she arched her back as he pulled it down her arms.

He was on his knees beside the sofa now, still kissing her deeply. Sophie was all but curled around him, her thighs pressed to his side, her arms clinging to his neck. His hand gripped her knee for a moment, then slid up, dragging her skirt with it. He cupped her bottom and pulled her hard toward him, and she moaned as he moved against her, his erection obvious even through layers of clothing.

In fits and starts she shoved and yanked at his clothes. His jacket hit the floor and then his cravat. He pressed her back into the cushions, his lips murmuring over the swells of her breasts as he stripped off his waistcoat. Frantic to feel his skin against hers, she twisted her arms behind her, trying to reach the remaining buttons of her dress.

His breath puffed in a faint laugh on her throat. “Leave it,” he whispered, untying the string that held her chemise closed.

“Take off your shirt,” she gasped, and he obligingly whipped it over his head.

She spread her hands on his bare chest, almost whimpering with want. God, he was perfect, lean and firm and so hot against her palms. He growled some indistinct encouragement as he tugged the chemise aside and licked her nipple.

“Oh—­!” She lurched upward, gripping his arms. His muscles bunched and flexed, and then his hand was on her knee, sliding upward.

“I wanted you the moment I saw you,” he whispered, his fingers pausing to tug at her garter. Sophie jerked in disbelief. His expression was fierce, his eyes burning. “I want to make love to you, Sophie, so badly I can hardly bear it.”

His heart was hammering; she could feel it beneath her palms. Her blood was running just as hot, and she looked him right in the eyes and said, “Yes. Yes.”

The rakish grin flashed across his face for a moment, and then his hand reached the top of her thigh. His fingers brushed the curls between her legs, and she spread her knees wider. She stared at him, her eyes wide with pleading.

He swore under his breath, then tossed up her skirt as he dragged her to the edge of the sofa. She sprawled wantonly, one foot on the floor, her other propped on the back of the sofa, the duke on his knees between her thighs. He pressed her back again, his big hand cupping her cheek before sliding possessively down her chest, pausing to fondle her breast, then spreading wide across her belly. His eyes were stormy gray as he touched her again, his fingers bold and unhurried, making her writhe and gasp.

Ware’s touch seemed electric; she was sure her hair would be standing on end if she weren’t tossing her head back and forth, her breath rasping in her throat as he stroked her and bent over her, his mouth on her breast. She flung her arms wide, gripping the cushions, trying to anchor herself as she felt the climax building inside her.

“The way you look,” said the duke, his voice guttural. “It could make me come, just looking at you.” She pried open her eyes to see him looming over her as he shoved down his trousers with one hand. Sophie caught her breath—­he pressed her thighs wider apart as he knelt one knee on the sofa—­and when he thrust deep inside her on one hard slide, it pushed her over the brink. She came with a broken cry, her body spasming hard.

“Christ,” said the duke hoarsely, his fingers digging into her hip to hold her tight against him. He withdrew a little, then thrust home hard, eliciting another tremor in her body. “Can you do it again?”

“What?” She could hardly speak; her hair was in her face, and she felt drunk as she gazed at him, above her, inside her, around her.

“Again,” he said, his voice taut, and he slid one hand back beneath her bunched-­up skirts.

“I—­I don’t . . .” Her voice choked off as he stroked her. Every muscle in her body twitched, and she gave a high-­pitched whimper.

“If timed just right, some women can climax again almost immediately.” He pulled back then pressed deep again.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Try . . .”

He bared his teeth in a feral grin and increased his pace. Sophie wasn’t sure she would survive. He was so big and strong, so hard and thick inside her. Her stomach was twisted into a hard knot, and she could hardly breathe. She gripped his arm, braced beside her head, and found his muscle as hard as iron, his skin slick with sweat.

And incredibly, the wave of pleasure rose inside her, faster this time, not quite as intense but still hard enough to catch her off guard. She heard herself sobbing even as her body rose to meet his thrusts, harder and faster than ever until he bore down and went suddenly still. His grip on her hip was painful for a moment. His breath hissed and his head dropped, and she felt his climax deep inside her.

“Your Grace,” was all she could gasp.

A laugh rumbled in his chest. He kissed her, his lips lingering a moment on hers. “I think you ought to call me Jack now.”

Her smile felt silly and insanely happy. “Jack.”

“Sophie.” He kissed her again. “My Sophie.”

It sent her heart leaping. “What now, Jack?” Playfully she looped her arms around his neck, marveling at how warm he was. Even with her dress mostly off, she didn’t feel the slightest bit chilled.

“Now . . .” He cupped one hand around her breast, spilling over her corset, and rolled his thumb over her nipple. Sophie flinched, and a dark smile crossed his face. “I’m going to make love to you properly.”

“Properly?”

“Yes.” He bent his head and swirled his tongue over the nipple, causing her to shudder again. “In my bed, with the lamps lit so I can see every flicker of passion in your face, with none of this”—­he tugged at the fabric of her skirt, crumpled between them—­“in the way.”

Yes. Even with her body still humming with pleasure and spent of all energy, something inside her leaped at the thought of what he offered. She wrapped her legs around his hips, reveling in his weight atop her. “That does sound very proper. Very ducal.”

His eyebrows went up. “I see. You think I’m too proper. Too ducal.” She laughed, but he moved his hips against hers and she stopped. The feel of him inside her made the breath catch in her chest. He rested his cheek against hers and murmured, “If wicked is what you want, wicked is what you shall get.”

“How wicked?” she asked, intrigued.

He settled on top of her and whispered in her ear. “I want you naked in my bed, spread like a feast for me. I want you on your hands and knees on the rug before the hearth, where I can watch every flicker of firelight on your skin. I want you in my bathing tub, astride my lap and slippery wet. I want you in my blue banyan and nothing else, with your legs around my waist and your back against the wall.”

“Oh my.” Her voice faltered as she imagined every one of those couplings, and her blood heated in anticipation. Even she, who frequented gaming hells, blushed scarlet.

“Shall I take you to bed now?” He nipped her earlobe, and Sophie managed a nod. Yes, yes, yes.

It took a few minutes to tug their clothing back into some sort of order. The duke—­Jack—­put his jacket around her shoulders to hide her disheveled dress and undergarments. He tossed his shirt over his head, buttoned his trousers, and put his waistcoat and cravat over one shoulder. He looked rakish and devil-­may-­care, more beautiful than any man had a right to look, but it was the way he took her hand that made Sophie’s heart give an off-­kilter thump. His fingers, so much larger than hers, laced perfectly with her own. Stopping only to pick up the half-­full champagne bottle, he led her out of the library.

She braced herself for any servants they might meet, but blessedly the corridors were deserted. Jack stopped at a door very near her own and threw it open to reveal a luxurious chamber.

“Why, they put me right near you!” she whispered in astonishment.

His blue-­gray gaze slid over her as he closed the door behind them. “Yes. You have the duchess’s chamber.”

Sophie put her hands on her burning cheeks. “They must have assumed, when we turned up late at night, that we were lovers . . .”

“Given that I wished it were so even then, I had no complaint.” His eyes gleamed. “Take off the jacket.” She let it fall to the floor. “And now the dress.” Deliberately slow, she slid loose the one button holding her dress closed at her back. The fabric slithered down her body, and she stepped out of it. “Everything else,” he said, his voice gone rough and low again.

She took a step backward, winding the string of her corset around one finger. “Isn’t that your role?”

He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. “Yes. By God, it is.”