Sophie landed on the plush velvet seat and tried to gather her scrambled wits.

She’d done it now. In the space of a few short hours, she had risked—­and perhaps lost—­everything she’d worked so hard to achieve. Bitterly she remembered Mrs. Upton’s words from long ago: gambling is the path to ruin. Tonight she had flagrantly violated every lesson she’d ever learned, and see where it had got her.

The duke stepped into the carriage and took the seat opposite her. The light gleamed on his golden hair for a moment, and then the footman shut the door, closing her in with the duke.

She wished she’d listened better when Philip spoke of his brother. She wished she’d heeded her own instincts to discourage Philip sooner. If she’d only refused him, she could still be playing whist with Mr. Carter, happily and quietly winning another hundred pounds or so for her savings. The duke had tempted her into lunacy with that enormous wager—­five thousand pounds!—­and it had been her undoing.

But if he thought he had bought her body and soul for a week, the Duke of Ware was going to be sorely disappointed.

“You’re completely mad!” Best to start on the attack.

“Mad?” He gave a sharp huff of laughter. “I don’t doubt it.”

She gripped her cloak with both hands to keep from slapping him. “This is very nearly kidnapping, you know. I lost the wager, but that does not give you the right to haul me out of Vega’s like a constable seizing a wanted criminal!”

“What you were doing to my brother ought to be criminal,” he returned.

Sophie’s mouth dropped open. “Criminal! It’s perfectly legal to gamble in London, thank you very much, and your brother went there of his own will—­to gamble. Why not turn on Mr. Dashwood, for allowing him entry?”

“Philip gave his word just this morning to cease all wagering for one month.” The duke’s voice was icy cold. “Yet there he was, unable to resist playing hazard because you were there.”

She wanted to throw something very heavy at him. “I was engaged in a respectable game of whist with other gentlemen when he arrived. If anything, he disrupted my evening, threatening to cause a scene if I did not play with him. And I suggested hazard because I thought it would end quickly.”

“With his money in your purse.”

“Only because he plays badly,” she shot back, incensed. “But I see that is a common family characteristic, for the most part.”

He inhaled audibly. She braced herself, but when he spoke, it was in the same even, implacable tone as before. “Yes, there has been an abundance of poor judgment this evening.”

Hope made her sit up a little straighter. “It’s not too late, you know. Drive me home, and I give you my word I shall never sit across from Lord Philip again at any table, not for gambling, not for dinner, not for bloody tea. In fact, if you supply a list of other friends or family members you wish to preserve from my offensive presence, I shall commit it to memory and avoid all of them.”

“That isn’t necessary.” In the dim light she could barely make out his face, turned away from her to gaze out the window beside him. “Only Philip.”

“Done!” she exclaimed. She never wanted to speak to Philip again after this. “Now take me home—­”

“No.”

She was sure she’d misheard. “What? Why not?”

“You wagered and lost. Members of Vega’s pay their debts, do they not?”

The blood drained from her face. For the first time she felt a shiver of fear. She pulled her cloak in front of her protectively, even though it would be no defense. She was at his mercy, alone with him in his carriage, heading heaven knew where, with no one to help her. “You mean to destroy me,” she said numbly, and suddenly hoping that was the worst that would happen to her.

He made a scornful noise. “Not at all.”

“But you will—­you made a public spectacle of me this evening, dragging me out of the club after claiming you wanted only my company for a week,” she said, a distressing tremor in her voice. Even if he didn’t touch her, enough people had seen them leave together that there would be talk. She would be known as the woman who wagered her own body, and her already thin respectability would go up in smoke.

“Yes,” he said. “To prevent you from beggaring my brother.”

“I played one round with him,” she cried. “One. I tried to bow out after that, but he insisted on another. If you have such a care for his purse, you should keep him away from Vega’s in the first place.”

“Would that I could.”

Sophie threw up her hands in mock astonishment. “What? You are powerless to influence the actions of your own brother, but you feel no compunction in overruling my will? Why is that?”

“If you didn’t like the terms, you should not have taken the wager,” he replied. “Why did you, madam? Too tempted by the lure of easy money? Winning from Philip wasn’t enough for you?”

Yes. There was no escaping it: his wager had been too much for her to resist. Sophie turned to glare out the window. She ought to have excused herself the moment the duke approached Philip, and even worse, she’d known it at the time. Some perverse little devil in her had kept her there, and then let her get drawn into the argument. Was it her place to intervene on Philip’s behalf? No. Philip was a grown man, older than she was, and if he couldn’t keep his word to his own brother, that was his fault—­and he ought to bear the consequences. Was it her place to taunt the duke? No. Was it wise to respond to his taunting invitation to play? Very definitely not.

She simply had to persuade him it was in his interest to take her home. “My maid will summon the constables when I don’t return.”

“My footman is no doubt knocking on your door as we speak, informing her that you have been urgently called away and won’t be home for a week.”

“What—­what—­” She couldn’t speak, she was so angry. “How dare you!”

“How dare I not want her to worry that her mistress wasn’t set upon by footpads or murdered in the street?” he asked.

“How dare you tell her lies—­”

“Lies?” He leaned forward, and light from a lamp on the street outside illuminated his face for a moment. He was as beautiful as Lucifer. “Would you have preferred I tell her the truth?”

No, curse him. Colleen was a good maid, but if she knew Sophie had lost a scandalous wager and been swept away by the Duke of Ware for a week of unknown activities, there was a strong chance she’d tell someone. Even just Cook, whose tongue was looser yet.

The duke sat back. “Tell her whatever story you wish when you return home.”

“If we went there now, I could explain to her—­” she began, but the duke cut her off.

“No.”

Sophie breathed through her nose for a moment, straining to keep her temper. Mr. Dashwood had stood by, as had an entire club of people, and allowed the duke to carry her off like his captive. She needed to be seen in London or even Vega’s gossip-­averse patrons would begin to talk. She could try to jump from the carriage, but with the turn her luck had taken tonight, she’d break her leg. She pressed her face to the window, considering it anyway. They were moving at a good clip past Hyde Park, a vast dark expanse in the night.

“Where are we going?” she asked, frowning at the rain.

“Alwyn House.”

“Where?”

“A country home of mine,” he said, as if he had more homes than he could keep count of. “In Chiswick.”

Good God. That wasn’t even in London. Anything past Kensington was decidedly out of town. She would be marooned there, with no chance of being able to sneak out and walk home. “That’s practically abduction!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” For the first time he sounded almost amused. “It’s barely six miles away.”

“Why so far? I’ve already given my word not to see Philip again—­”

“But Philip has not given his word not to see you,” he said, his voice hard again. “Not that I could trust it if he had.”

“Why am I to be punished for that?”

His laugh was bitter. “I assure you, I shall be punished by it far more than you.”

She glared balefully in his direction. It was much too dark to see his face again, but an occasional flicker of light would pick out the white of his cravat or the gleam of gold in his hair. Not that she needed to see him to remember his face. How appalling that she’d thought him beautiful. “How typical of a man. You cause the problem and then feel yourself the maligned party. If you do feel punished, I can only say it is richly deserved.” She yanked her cloak closer around herself and resolutely turned her shoulder to him.

Jack didn’t bother arguing. He happened to agree with her.

What devil had possessed him to make that bloody wager?

Jealousy, whispered his conscience. Jealousy over the way Philip held her hand and the way she looked at Philip, flirtatious and trusting and familiar. The way their heads had bowed together, warm and intimate. It was the way Portia had once looked at him before she eloped with another man.

He closed his eyes and let out his breath, irked with himself even for thinking of her. Portia Villiers was many years in his past. She’d taught him a hard—­but necessary—­lesson about women. Tonight he’d had another difficult lesson, and he could only hope he came out of this one better than before. And to do that, he’d better figure out what to do with Mrs. Campbell.

The drive to Alwyn House normally took little more than an hour. It was ideal for brief escapes from London, as he could come and go with very little preparation. In the summer he went almost weekly. The road as far as Turnham Green was well maintained and macadamized, but when they reached the turn south toward Alwyn, the pace slowed dramatically. Too late Jack realized it must have been raining harder here; the country roads that covered the remaining distance to the house were in far worse shape.

The carriage lurched violently to one side. Mrs. Campbell gave a startled exclamation as she was thrown across the seat. Jack caught her before she could fall to the floor, but a second lurch flung them both against the side of the vehicle.

“And I wondered what else could go wrong tonight,” she said breathlessly, struggling amid the folds of her cloak, which had tangled around her.

Jack inhaled deeply of orange water and some scent that had to be her. She had fallen across his lap, and in her scrambling to right herself, her hand landed on his thigh. Rather intimately close to his groin. His blood surged as she wriggled some more, clearly unaware of the position of her hand. “Mrs. Campbell,” he managed to say, squeezing his arms around her to prevent that hand from sliding. “Wait a moment.” The carriage was still tilted to the side, and she was trying to climb uphill.

“Help me!” she retorted, and obligingly Jack opened his arms and gave her a small push. She landed on the opposite seat with a thump as the carriage swayed back to upright.

“It’s only the rain.” He flexed his hand under cover of his greatcoat. His palm still sizzled with the knowledge of the curve of her waist.

She sniffed in reply.

Slower than a walk, the coach moved forward in fits and jerks, pitching from one side to the other and then back again. Jack braced his feet against the opposite seat and gripped the strap. At least it was barely a mile from the main road to the house. Once they made it to the house, he would hand her over to the housekeeper, and go dunk his head in cold water until he regained his sense.

No sooner had he thought that than they stopped again. The carriage swayed, rocking back and forth, before settling at a drunken tilt. Jack’s bad feeling about the road grew worse.

The door opened, letting in a spray of rain. “Your Grace, the carriage is immovably stuck.”

God, he reflected, had not waited long to inflict penance. “What can be done?”

The sodden footman hesitated. “We’re less than a mile from Alwyn House. Jeffers will ride on and fetch help, but the road’s very bad ahead. Any other conveyance may well suffer the same fate as this one.”

He could not possibly spend the night trapped in this coach with Mrs. Campbell. Jack leaned forward to peer out the carriage door. His footman’s boots were sunk in mud to the ankles. He girded himself for a soaking wet ride in the rain. “Send Jeffers for horses. Don’t waste time attempting to bring a carriage. We shall have to ride.”

There was a rustle of movement from Mrs. Campbell. “Good heavens, is there no other house nearby?” she asked in dismay.

“No,” he said shortly.

“No inn?”

“Not on this road.”

“God save us from your idiocy,” she muttered, just loudly enough for him to hear. “This is a very poor kidnapping, Your Grace.”

“It is not a kidnapping,” he snapped. “You wish to leave?” He shoved the door fully open, forcing the footman to jump backward. “By all means, madam, you are free to go.”

“Very well, I will.” She pulled up the hood of her cloak and slid toward the door. “Where is the nearest house?” she asked the footman.

The fellow gaped. “Alwyn House, madam. Our destination. Less than a mile ahead.” He pointed into the darkness.

Mrs. Campbell threw an irate glance at Jack, who just raised one brow. It wasn’t his fault the carriage was stuck. “What about behind us?”

“I couldn’t say, ma’am.”

She sighed. “Alwyn it will have to be, then. Pardon me.” She poked at Jack’s knee, which was blocking the door.

“You can’t really mean to walk,” he said in disbelief.

“If the alternative is sitting here with you for hours, yes,” she replied. “It’s not that cold, and I shan’t dissolve in the rain.”

“And the mud?” He swept one hand toward the open door.

She lifted her skirts and surveyed her feet, clad in thin leather shoes. “It will ruin everything I’m wearing. I fully intend to send you a bill for the loss.”

“You’ve no idea where you’re going.”

She put her head to one side and gave an odd little smile. “That’s never stopped me before.” Jack stared, and this time she pushed his knee. On instinct he moved, and without another word she was out the door, helped by the startled footman.

For a moment he concentrated on breathing deeply. He should have never left Ware House in London. It would have been better to let Philip beggar himself, to her benefit or to anyone else’s. He should have turned and walked out of the club the moment he saw her face and felt a bolt of desire shoot through him. That had been his warning sign, and because he’d ignored it, he was going to have to trudge almost a mile in the rain and mud.

More penance, no doubt.

Grimly he turned up the collar of his greatcoat and climbed out of the coach. The rain beat down on his shoulders, stinging and sharp but not cold—­as Mrs. Campbell had said. Jack eyed her with disapproval. She had made her way to the front of the coach and was speaking with the driver, one hand clutching her hood beneath her chin. The driver pointed down the road, toward Alwyn, and she gave a decisive nod. A gust of wind caught her cloak and blew it open, exposing the bright blazing red of her gown—­a gown soon to be utterly ruined by the weather. Jack waded forward, wincing with each pull of the mud on his feet.

“Unharness the horses,” he told the driver, raising his voice over the rain. “Get them and yourselves to Alwyn House. Fetch the coach in the morning.” There was no point waiting; the horses were broken to a postilion rider, but it would be madness to try to ride them now, in a storm with no saddles or proper bridles. They stood placidly enough at the moment, but Jack knew better than to risk it. The driver and footmen would have to lead them.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The man ducked his head and motioned to the footman to come help.

Jack turned to Mrs. Campbell. “If you’re mad enough to walk, I shall have to walk, too.”

She looked distinctly unimpressed. “Please don’t feel obliged.”

“You have no idea where the house is, nor is the housekeeper expecting you.” He finished doing the buttons on his coat and pulled his hat lower on his forehead. This would be a miserable walk for him; Mrs. Campbell, in her gown and slippers, was going to be wretched. Of course, she had chosen to do it against his advice. “Shall we?”

They started off, heads bowed against the rain. It must have been raining here longer than in London. The road was a swamp of mud, and every apparent bit of solid footing turned out to be a puddle, lurking like a Charybdis in wait for a careless step. Jack forged into the lead, both to show the way and to block the wind. It also kept her out of his view, which made the rain in his face worthwhile. Penance, he told himself as water found a way down the back of his collar. He deserved this for being such an idiot tonight, and he began to feel guilty that he’d dragged Mrs. Campbell into it.

But the woman with him never complained. She didn’t speak as they trudged down the road, and every time he stole a glance backward, her gaze was focused downward, minding her steps. Her cloak hung in sodden folds; it was a pretty evening cloak, not a thick one. It couldn’t offer much protection, but on the other hand it wouldn’t be as heavy when wet.

The rain pounded down without pause. He concentrated on not losing his balance and falling flat on his face in the mud, a humiliation he was determined to avoid.

At long last the wrought-­iron gates appeared. He turned in, trusting Mrs. Campbell had enough self-­preservation to follow, and heaved a sigh of relief when he stepped onto the gravel drive. It was spotted with puddles but far firmer than the muddy road. The rain still beat steadily on his head and shoulders, but the imminent prospect of a hot bath and a glass of brandy cheered him immensely. His steps quickened.

A tug at his elbow made him look down. Mrs. Campbell gripped his coat sleeve, her wide-­eyed gaze fixed on the house ahead of them. “That is your house?”

Jack nodded once. “Blessedly, it is.”

She blinked several times. Raindrops clung to her long eyelashes and ran down the curve of her cheek. Her cloak gaped open at her throat, and his eyes skimmed down the expanse of pale wet skin. She was soaked. So was he, but suddenly Jack didn’t feel it at all. Suddenly it wasn’t his own bath that transfixed his mind, but hers—­her, in the bath, her hair curling in the steam and her skin flushed pink everywhere . . .

God almighty. He tore his eyes from her and looked at Alwyn. It was a little jewel of a house, built by his great-­grandfather in the style of a French château, though on a far smaller scale. As always, his mood improved merely at the prospect of a few days here. “Have you some objection to it?”

She blinked again and released his sleeve. “None at all, if it is warm and dry.”

“Good.” Without waiting for her, he strode on.

It took a few minutes of pounding on the door to raise a response. Jack hammered the knocker, aware of his companion standing dripping wet behind him.

“Is anyone here?” Mrs. Campbell finally asked.

“Yes. Always.” Jack thumped on the door again. “But we’re not expected.”

“I gathered,” she said sourly. “A spur-­of-­the-­moment kidnapping.”

“Stop saying that.” He glanced at her, irked. “You wanted a bit of adventure and you got some.”

“I didn’t want it with you,” she shot back.

“Let that be a lesson to you, then. Don’t make wagers you don’t wish to honor.” His ears caught the scrape of the bolt, and he stepped back as the door opened.

The butler stared disdainfully at them through the narrow opening. “Who is there?”

“Ware.” Jack removed his hat, ignoring the rain. “Open the door, Wilson.”

The butler’s eyes nearly popped from his head. He threw the door open wide and bowed deeply. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. We received no notice of your visit—­”

“I know.” Jack brushed past him. The house, per his instructions, was kept almost at full readiness. Alwyn was his retreat from London, where he could slip away from the relentless pressures of the dukedom for a few days. It wasn’t a total escape, as most of the work followed him, but here it was quiet and peaceful. His mother hated the house, it being too far from the society of London, and Philip found it old-­fashioned, so he always had it to himself.

Except tonight, obviously. In the middle of unbuttoning his coat, he glanced back to see Mrs. Campbell hesitating on the doorstep. “Come in,” he told her. “Unless you’ve taken a liking to the rain.”

Her eyes narrowed and her lush mouth twitched in irritation, but she came inside, allowing Wilson to shut the door behind her.

Jack turned at the patter of footsteps. The housekeeper was all but running down the stairs. “Your Grace,” she said breathlessly, making a hasty curtsy. “We didn’t expect you—­”

“I know, Mrs. Gibbon,” he assured her. “It was a decision made on the spur of the moment.” He avoided Mrs. Campbell’s gaze as he repeated her words, and shed his greatcoat into Wilson’s waiting hands. “This is Mrs. Campbell. Draw a hot bath and prepare a room for her. Are you hungry?” He swung around to address his guest.

She looked dazed. There were still raindrops clinging to her eyelashes. “Er—­No. Tea would be lovely, though . . .”

“Very good. Mrs. Gibbon, I leave her to your capable care.” Jack headed through the door for the stairs. His boots squelched at every step, and he was fiendishly anxious to pry them off.

“Sir!” He stopped at Mrs. Campbell’s cry. One foot already on the stairs, he looked back.

She had removed her cloak. As expected, her scarlet gown was drenched and clung to her body from her shoulders to her knees. The outlines of her stays were visible beneath the wet gown, and Jack imagined he could see her nipples, hard and erect. He imagined unlacing that dress and peeling it down, tasting every dewy wet inch of her skin. He imagined drawing her down with him into the large copper tub that was surely being set up even now in his dressing room, and his breath shuddered.

God help him. He was worse than Philip.

“Yes?” he said curtly, fighting the reaction of his body to the unwanted images running through his brain.

“What . . . ?” She made a helpless motion with one hand. “What am I to do?”

Strip off that wet dress. Let down your hair. Smile at me the way you did at Philip.

“Get warm and dry,” he said. “After that . . . we shall talk.” And nothing else, by God. He turned and went up the stairs.