Sophie knew she ought to have walked away the moment the duke ordered his brother to stop playing. Hazard was a game of sheer luck, and clearly hers was ebbing tonight. Not only had Giles Carter disappeared, she was now the center of attention thanks to the duke.

If her luck was bad, though, his was atrocious. He lost and lost badly. After the first round, a tiny frown creased his forehead as he studied the table, making him look almost endearingly puzzled, as if the game’s rules had changed on him. It gave her a moment of pause; how could she feel badly taking advantage of Philip, then revel in beating a man who had no experience at hazard?

Behind the duke’s back, Philip sent her a gleeful look. She couldn’t resist a tiny smile in reply, but the duke looked up at that moment and saw it. His jaw firmed. “A professional gamester, I take it.”

Sophie flushed with fury. “Perhaps the personification of Lady Luck.”

“Lady Luck,” he repeated. “And like my brother before me, you’re against me.” He picked up the dice again and held them out.

So be it. If he wished to lose, she was ready to win.

She raised the stakes. She began to flirt a bit with some of the spectators, and to ask the crowd, which had grown rather large and quivered with attentive interest around them now, what she should do. They always cried that she should bet more, so she did. Philip moved to her side and recovered his bonhomie, cheering her on every time she won. And consistently her luck was just a little better than the duke’s.

It surprised her that he played on, even after she had won a shocking sum of money from him. Even the most bumbling player would have recognized that the dice were not on his side this evening and slunk away with his pockets lighter, though not emptied. Not the duke. And every time he forfeited another marker, something surged inside her.

Finally, though it felt abrupt, the duke put his hands palm down on the table and surveyed the damage. His golden hair had grown disheveled, falling in rumpled waves over his forehead, and he’d unbuttoned his jacket at some point. It made him look far more like his rakish younger brother. “Enough,” he said.

She sent a dazzling smile in his direction. “As you wish, sir. And may I say, it has certainly been my pleasure.” The crowd rumbled with laughter. A small mountain of markers sat on her side; she’d lost track of the total after it reached two hundred pounds. This was her best night in a year.

At her words, he looked up, visibly irked. His eyes glittered sea blue, and his mouth tightened. “One more round.”

She laughed in disbelief. “Such a gambler!” Beside her, Philip snorted with laughter. Philip was enjoying this immensely. Sophie rested her hand on the table to lean closer to him and lowered her voice. “Surely you’ve lost enough for one night.”

The duke’s gaze swung toward her, slowly climbing from her hands to her face. Too late she realized her comment, well meant advice to someone on a bad losing streak, had struck him as condescension. “No more paltry stakes.”

Her moment of regret ended. Paltry! No wonder Philip despised him. “Let that be a lesson, Philip,” she said lightly, without taking her eyes from the duke. “A hundred guineas is a paltry sum.”

Philip chuckled. The duke stared at her. A tiny muscle twitched in his jaw, giving the impression of barely leashed emotion. “I stake five thousand pounds.” Sophie’s mouth dropped open and the crowd buzzed with shock—­and delight. Clearly Vega’s did not see recklessness on this scale every night. “One round each, played until loss, winner take all. If we both throw out, it’s a draw.”

Unconsciously her gaze veered back to her prize money. She’d have to wager it all, on one round. If she won, it would be by far the smallest part of her profit tonight. It would also put her almost at her goal of ten thousand pounds saved. Independence would be within her grasp in this one round . . .

But the first rule of gambling was: easily won, easily lost. The duke’s luck had been abominable, but that didn’t mean her odds had improved. “Not tonight, sir,” she said, with more than a tinge of regret. Better to keep the few hundred pounds she’d already won.

“You mistake me. You don’t have to risk a farthing.” She made the mistake of looking at him again. Indifferent to the onlookers whispering around them, he rose to his full height and folded his arms. It made his shoulders look very broad and his arms very strong, and there was a focus in his face as he watched her that made Sophie’s heart patter erratically. She wanted to look away from his sea-­blue gaze but couldn’t. “One week of your company is what I want.”

If Jack had seen any other man act the way he’d behaved tonight, he would have suspected the fellow was barking, howling mad.

Since he was that fellow, he knew beyond all doubt that he had indeed lost his mind.

He had ignored his own good judgment and caused a scene—­and not just any scene, piously preventing Philip from running headlong into ruin, but a scene that would enthrall every gossip in London, no matter what pledges Dashwood exacted from his patrons. Worst of all, he was breaking his own vow to avoid gambling—­at hazard, the game designed to beggar a man as speedily as possible.

But there was something about this woman that provoked and entranced him beyond all reason. Her hair had come loose as they played, and one curl hung down at her nape, tangling in that extra length of black ribbon. Every time she leaned over the table to collect the dice—­or her winnings—­his eyes were drawn to that curl, teasing and tempting him to catch it, to bury his face in the mass of her chestnut hair, to inhale her scent. He could almost feel the ripe curves of her body against his. When she smiled after a good roll, he didn’t think of the money he’d just lost but of what her ripe pink mouth would taste like.

Utter madness.

He hadn’t been affected by a woman like this in years, and was shocked by how powerful it was. Helplessly he gazed at her, fully aware that she was flirting with every scoundrel pressed up against the hazard table trying to peer down her vivid red bodice. She filled it out spectacularly, he couldn’t help but notice. No wonder Philip had broken his vow of moral rectitude for her. Jack hadn’t missed the fascination in his brother’s face as he watched her, and on no account was he going to allow her to make a fool of Philip. He had stepped forward to save his brother from a mercenary temptress, nothing more.

But the moment her gaze connected with his, every thought of Philip vanished from his brain.

Consequently, he went a little mad, taunting her into gambling with him, playing recklessly even when it grew abundantly clear he had no idea what he was doing. He’d thought Philip looked like a fool, but then he’d proven himself one, in front of every avid gambler in town.

A murmur went through the crowd when he made the last outrageous wager. Philip, who had been openly enjoying his humiliation to this point, lurched forward. “What the devil are you doing?”

Jack barely glanced at his brother. “Wagering.”

“You can’t wager that!”

“No?” He turned to look at Mrs. Campbell. How reckless was she? She was staring at him, eyes wide, her rosy lips parted. The wise move here would be for her to collect her winnings and walk out the door.

“Five thousand pounds,” she said, her voice so soft he barely heard it. Her eyes flickered toward Philip, almost in apology. “Against one week of my company.”

She was considering it. His heart jolted in his chest. He would probably lose, the way his luck was running, but . . . she was considering it.

With a quick motion she put back her shoulders and stepped to the table. “Done.”

The crowd hissed in stunned surprise. Philip froze, his expression terrible. Jack barely registered any of it; triumph shot through him, hot and thrilling. Mrs. Campbell tipped up her face to stare defiantly into his eyes, and he knew, in some deep primitive part of his soul, that he was going to win.

And damn it all if his pulse didn’t surge at the thought.

“A moment, Your Grace,” murmured someone beside him. Dashwood, the club owner, had sidled through the crowd. “That’s a rather substantial wager.”

Slowly Jack turned. “Do you think I cannot cover it?”

A nervous titter ran through the crowd. Everyone knew he could cover five times that amount.

“That wasn’t my concern,” said Dashwood, unperturbed. “You’re not a member and I cannot guarantee anything . . . on either side.”

Jack raised his head and gave him a glacial look. “Are you interfering?”

Finally the club owner paused. It probably went against the grain for the owner of a gambling hell to prohibit any sort of wager. “Not if the lady is certain she wishes to proceed.” He cocked his head expectantly. “Are you, Mrs. Campbell?”

It was utterly silent. Jack watched the pulse throb at the base of her throat; he studied the color that rose in her cheeks. She was as rosy and delicious as fresh strawberries. He should hope the owner’s question gave her time to reconsider and refuse. He was insane to do this. She had bewitched Philip, and seemed in a fair way of doing the same to him.

But he mentally growled in triumph when she put up her chin and said, clearly and boldly, “Quite certain, Mr. Dashwood.”

The club owner bowed his head and stepped aside. Jack picked up the dice and offered them to Mrs. Campbell. Her fingertips brushed his palm as she took them, and her gaze jumped to clash with his. Something leaped inside him, and he waved one hand at the table, inviting her to play first.

“Seven,” she called, flinging the dice. An eight. She made a face of exaggerated regret and swept up the dice for her next roll. A nine. Grimly, she rolled once more.

Eleven.

Her eyelashes fluttered, but she didn’t say anything. Jack reached for the dice. For the first time all evening, they felt light and easy in his hand. He let them rest there a moment, weighing them. He couldn’t lose now; if he threw out, it would be a draw and they would both walk away. But if he won . . .

“Six,” he said quietly, and flicked his wrist. The dice bounced around before settling into place.

A pair of threes.

Her chest heaved as she stared at them. It was practically the only good roll he’d made all night. The onlookers burst into a seething rumble of whispers and exclamations. Jack turned to his brother, who was staring white-­faced at the table. “You’re done here. I won’t cover another debt from this or any other gaming club.”

“Right. Very well.” Philip seemed to have difficulty breathing. “I’ll agree to that. I deserve that. But don’t do this—­not her—­”

Jack looked at Mrs. Campbell. She still stood as if frozen at the table. Everyone had withdrawn a step, leaving her alone in the center of a small circle. She was staring at the dice, her eyelashes dark against her pale cheeks.

Reluctantly his conscience stirred. His quarrel wasn’t with her. He could speak to her privately, in Dashwood’s office, and explain why he’d made that wager. He was only trying to save his brother from ruin. Well—­his gaze dipped to her bosom for a moment—­not entirely, of course, but it was an unimpeachable motive and had the benefit of being true. He would release her from the wager on the condition she swear not to gamble with Philip again. That was his primary purpose—­his only purpose, damn it, even though he had to work to keep his eyes off her—­separating her and every other sharper from his brother.

Philip pushed past him and took Mrs. Campbell’s hand. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he said to her. “It was a coerced wager. You aren’t required to fulfill it.” He shot a venomous glare at Jack.

She started as if from a trance. “What?”

“Of course you aren’t!” Philip exclaimed. He lowered his voice, but Jack still heard. “He did it to punish me, because of our friendship. He cannot hold you to it—­nor will I allow him to, Sophie.” Philip clasped her hand in both of his and brought it to his lips while Mrs. Campbell raised her eyes to Jack’s.

There was no fear or horror in them—­she was furious. And she was letting Philip hold her hand for far too long.

His conscience fell mute. “On the contrary.” He tilted his head, and Dashwood, lingering nearby but pointedly looking away, sighed.

“Mrs. Campbell, you lost a wager freely agreed to. It must be paid.”

Her bosom rose and fell. Her eyes glittered. “Yes. Of course. I see that. If His Grace will call upon me tomorrow, I’m sure we can—­”

“Mr. Dashwood,” Jack said, “collect Mrs. Campbell’s winnings and credit them to her account.” He took her arm and tugged her away from Philip. She hung back and he put an arm around her waist, deliberately holding her to him. It was meant for Philip, but again his heart seemed to stumble over itself at the warmth of her body against his. He started for the door, taking her with him.

“Stop,” she gasped. “Wait a moment . . .”

“You wagered and you lost. Everyone at Vega’s pays their debts, my dear.”

“Yes, but I cannot go with you now—­”

“You can.” There was an outburst behind him—­Philip arguing with Dashwood, who was refusing to intervene. Jack felt a dark satisfaction that perhaps now, at last, Philip would believe he meant what he said.

“Tomorrow,” Mrs. Campbell protested, but he squeezed her and she stopped speaking.

“What is different about tomorrow? You’re trying to think of a way out of it, or stalling for time until Philip can.” He looked down at her as a servant went flying for her cloak. “Don’t be afraid,” he added in cool amusement as he took in her pale, angry face. “I have no designs on you.” He lowered his head until his lips brushed the hair at her temple. She smelled of oranges. “Can you say the same of my brother?”

Her face flushed as scarlet as her gown. Jack caught a glimpse down the front of her bodice and felt an answering flush of heat in his own body. Forget Philip, he wanted to say. Let me seduce you instead. Which was the clearest sign yet that he’d lost his mind.

The servant ran up with Jack’s things and her cloak. The instant she took it, he swept her out the door and down the steps. It had begun raining, and Mrs. Campbell huddled against him, throwing her cloak up to shield herself. Philip shouted after them, but Jack ignored it. This was for his brother’s own good, and he was not in the mood for any more confrontation tonight.

The Ware coach was waiting where he’d left it, even though he’d been inside much longer than expected. A footman threw open the door, his expression impassive as Jack bundled his companion inside. She scrambled onto the far seat as he shrugged into his greatcoat and gave a few short instructions to his servants.

Philip burst out of the club, hatless and furious. “Don’t you dare do this,” he spat, standing with his feet apart and his hands in fists. “I will never forgive you!”

Jack gave him a long, ducal stare, the one he’d learned from his father. “If you’d kept your word, it would not have been necessary. Until next week, dear brother.” He touched the brim of his hat in mocking salute and stepped into the carriage.