Sophie barely restrained herself from saying something very rude to the duke’s retreating back. He was insufferable.

The housekeeper was waiting, trying to conceal her rabid curiosity. The butler took her sopping wet cloak and quietly slipped away. She gathered herself. “Good evening,” she said to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Gibbon, is it?”

“Yes, madam.”

Sophie plucked at her wet skirt. The bright crimson cotton had been one of her favorites, and now it was surely ruined, spattered with mud up to her knees. “The carriage got stuck on the road, nigh on a mile away. I imagine it’s been raining all day?”

“Since yesterday, ma’am.” Mrs. Gibbon hesitated, then asked incredulously, “Did you walk a mile?”

“Oh yes,” Sophie said. “There was no choice. It was rather hard going at times, I must say.”

The woman’s face softened. “With His Grace you were perfectly safe, although it must have been miserable! This way, madam. We’ll get you warm and dry.” She led the way up the stairs.

“I’m so sorry for the extra work it must put you to,” Sophie said as they climbed the broad stairs of polished wood. She tried not to think of the wet footprints she was leaving on them for some hapless servant to wipe clean.

“Have no worry on that score,” the woman assured her. “His Grace always leaves proper orders for the house.”

Sophie took another look around her. Everyone kept calling it a house, as if it compared to the narrow brick home she had in Alfred Street. This looked far more like a mansion to her, even more so inside than out. The walls were robin’s-­egg blue, and parquet floors gleamed in the glow of the housekeeper’s lamp. She glanced up and gasped quietly at the high arched ceiling that shone with gold leaf even in the low light.

At the top of the stairs Mrs. Gibbon led her down a corridor into a room that looked sumptuous in the shadows. “I beg your pardon that it’s not been prepared, but the maid will be in directly.” She pulled the bell rope, then hurried through the room and opened another door, revealing a cozy dressing room, tiled before the fireplace. A large copper tub sat at the back. “It will take a good while to draw a hot bath, but you’ve got to get out of those wet clothes.” She sized up Sophie, who was beginning to shiver in the cool room. “After that . . . Well, we’ll see what we can do.”

By the time Sophie had shed her sodden dress and undergarments and was wrapped in a number of blankets, two other servants had arrived, one of them bearing a cup of tea. Sophie sipped and watched as they started the fire already laid in the hearth, arranged the copper tub and conferred with Mrs. Gibbon in low voices. Someone took her clothing, promising to make an effort to save it.

When the tub was filled with steaming water, she sank into it gratefully. At home she had only her maid, Colleen, and a cook who came in every other day. It was lovely to have a throng of people look after her, although she still felt the duke owed her that much at least, after upending her evening so arrogantly.

The duke. She slid down until the water covered her to the chin, with only her knees sticking out. What was she to make of the duke?

Philip claimed he’d gone to the club to see Mr. Dashwood, and he’d startled like a guilty boy when his brother appeared. Mr. Dashwood had said the duke was not a member, and the duke himself had told Philip he wouldn’t pay any more gambling debts. Therefore the duke must have been at Vega’s to settle Philip’s debt. Sophie could understand the duke’s anger, if things were as he said.

But why the devil had he turned on her? She certainly hadn’t held the debt from Philip, although heaven knew it wouldn’t have been difficult. For all she—­or the duke—­knew, Philip was still at Vega’s, wagering madly since he knew his brother was nowhere nearby to stop him.

And now she was stuck here, far from London, with a man she did not know or like. Rain still pattered against the windows, and it would take at least a day of dry weather for the roads to become passable. Sophie had spent the carriage ride thinking rude thoughts about the duke, which was terribly cathartic, but now it was time to address the more practical question of how she should handle him. If only Philip had told her more about him. If only she had been curious to know more.

She swirled her fingers through the water. He was younger than expected, surely not more than thirty-­five, which meant he had inherited when he was a young man. What might that do to a person? She wondered how different his upbringing had been from Philip’s; they appeared nothing alike, based on her limited observation.

In the end she decided it was a mistake to assume too much either way. She ought to focus on their area of agreement, which was that she would not gamble with Philip anymore, ever. If she proved herself understanding, discreet, and trustworthy, he would be far more likely to send her back to town in the morning.

And it was vital that she return to London as soon as possible. Despite Mr. Dashwood’s rule against gossip, this story would leak out. Sophie was well aware of what would happen when it did. If there were rumors that she had made a scandalous wager to spend a week with the Duke of Ware, bolstered by whispers that he swept her away from Vega’s that very night, and then she wasn’t seen anywhere in London for a week, she would lose her last shred of respectability. Everyone would think her the duke’s mistress, and that would destroy any chance she had of finding a decent husband. Sophie refused to let that man ruin her life so carelessly.

Her mind made up, she got out of the tub. Mrs. Gibbon had left plenty of warm towels for her, and she went into the other room—­now brightly lit and warmed by a roaring fire in the hearth—­feeling revitalized.

Her determination took a blow, however, when the housekeeper said she had been unable to locate any suitable clothing. The only females in the house were two maids, the cook and Mrs. Gibbon herself, none of whom were close to Sophie’s size. “We’re searching for something suitable,” the housekeeper promised, “but I’ve located something for tonight.” She laid a beautiful blue velvet banyan on the bed.

Sophie stared at that dressing gown. “Whose is this?” But she knew.

“His Grace’s,” said Mrs. Gibbon. “His man gave it to me when I asked what to do for you. By morning, I vow, I’ll have proper clothing.”

She touched the plush fabric. It was lined with purple silk, so decadent she almost sighed with pleasure just from touching it.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” added the housekeeper. “I’ll fetch one of my own nightgowns for you. It’s the best I can do.”

She started out of her reverie. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “It’s very kind of you.”

The woman inclined her head in acknowledgment. “His Grace bid me tell you that he will see you in the library, if you wish to speak to him.”

She certainly had plenty to say to the duke. It wasn’t ideal to face him down wearing his dressing gown, but he was responsible for that circumstance. She stroked the velvet again. “Thank you, Mrs. Gibbon. I will.”

Jack felt greatly restored to sense once he was warm and dry again.

He sent Michaels, the footman who attended him in the absence of his valet, to inform Mrs. Gibbon that he would be in the library, if his guest wished to speak to him, and then he sprawled in one of the comfortable leather chairs by the fire. Michaels brought a glass of brandy and left him to his thoughts.

It was much easier to sort those thoughts out now that Sophie Campbell wasn’t in the room.

First, and most important, he had done what needed to be done. Philip needed a shock to his system. It hadn’t been the most deft or diplomatic maneuver, Jack admitted, but one could never let that prevent seizing an opportunity when it arose.

He rotated his glass and studied the firelight on the amber brandy. The key element of any strategy was always to know what someone else wanted. Philip had demonstrated that what he wanted, even more than the thrill of gambling, was Mrs. Campbell. The way he’d touched her and comforted her made that plain. Short of following him like a nursemaid, it would be impossible to keep Philip from wagering everywhere, which made this the only option with any significance. Jack didn’t fool himself it would cure his brother entirely of his bad habits, but it would make a strong impression on him.

As for Mrs. Campbell herself . . . What business did a young and attractive woman have gambling every night at Vega’s? There were two likely answers, neither of them flattering. The first was that she was there for the same reason Philip and his mates were, to fritter away a fortune, either her own or someone else’s, in pursuit of idle entertainment. Jack felt no regret about his actions whatsoever if this were her motive. He didn’t care if she were the richest heiress in Britain; gambling was reckless and wasteful.

The second possibility was that she was looking for something other than the thrill of winning. It hadn’t escaped his notice that while women might be admitted to Vega’s, not many there were as beautiful or as vivacious as she. Every man in the club had noticed her, in her scarlet dress with that lone tormenting loose curl of dark hair. She could be playing for higher stakes than money. If her intent was to attract Philip as her wealthy lover, Jack would put an emphatic end to that fantasy. A woman like that could bleed a man dry even faster than the hazard table could.

And if by some remote chance he was wrong, he could simply pay her the five thousand pounds after all. That was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?

The door opened behind him, and he sipped his brandy, girding himself for a confrontation. He was not accustomed to apologizing for his actions. In this case, he didn’t even regret them. Had she been hideous or elderly, he would have acted just as decisively to keep her from ruining his brother—­not, perhaps, in the exact same manner, but just as forcefully. The fact that she was young and attractive only made her more dangerous.

“I do hope you’ve made a better plan for getting back to London than you made for getting here.” She came around his chair toward the fire, and Jack almost dropped his drink as he got a look at her.

Her hair tumbled down her back in loose waves, shining like polished mahogany in the firelight. But it was her clothing that threatened to strike him dumb. The long blue velvet dressing gown brushed the floor as she walked, and the sleeves had been folded back to expose her hands. She’d wrapped the belt around herself twice, emphasizing the slimness of her waist . . . and how beautifully curved the rest of her was. It was the most intimate of undress, even before his stunned brain registered one obvious point.

“That’s my dressing gown,” he said.

She gave him a saucy look and twitched the too-­long banyan around her legs. “It’s all they could find for me to wear. The housemaid nearest my size recently gave notice. The clothing of the other housemaids is too small, Mrs. Gibbon’s is far too large, and that left this.” She swept one hand over the velvet, lingering on the fabric. Jack’s eyes tracked her fingers, imagining the feel of the velvet . . . and the flesh beneath it. “Everything I have to wear is soaked and quite likely ruined, thanks to your lunatic desire to kidnap me from London in the middle of a torrential rainstorm.”

“I did not kidnap you.” He poured more brandy down his throat, trying not to look at her bare ankle, visible below the hem. Was the rest of her bare under the banyan? It was not helping his concentration.

“You didn’t let me go home, as I wished.” She dropped onto the settee opposite him, and the gown parted, showing one slim leg, naked to the knee. Thankfully she tugged the dressing gown over it before she caught him looking.

Staring, actually. Did they really not have a single item of female clothing in the house?

Insanity seemed to be riddling his brain. What the devil was he thinking, to drag this woman to Alwyn House? He’d never survive a week alone with her. She’d be the death of him, one way or the other.

“What is your plan?” she asked directly. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

“Philip,” he said, grasping the thread with relief. “He broke his word to me, and there must be consequences.”

“Why didn’t you drag Philip away with you?”

Because he hadn’t wanted to spend a day, let alone a week with Philip. He tried to squelch the thought. “That would do nothing. He would sulk and glower, then go right back to the tables.”

“As opposed to this, where you left him to gamble without even that minor interruption,” she said gravely. “I see your reasoning.”

He took another swallow of brandy. His reasoning made less and less sense even to him. Was she wearing anything under the banyan? “If you didn’t want to be part of it, you ought to have walked away instead of rushing to his defense.”

She blew out a breath. “Yes, I really ought to have. But as you said, I was seduced by greed. The prospect of winning five thousand pounds in one stroke was too tempting to resist.”

He tilted his glass in mocking salute. “A deadly sin.”

She made a noise of rueful agreement. “Is Philip a terrible liar, then?”

Jack gave her a cold look and said nothing.

“Am I overstepping my place by asking that?” She sounded amused, incredibly. “You said he broke his word to you not to gamble. I see him all the time, you know. Mostly at Vega’s, but sometimes at the assembly rooms. If you think he’s losing all his money to me, you’re sadly misinformed.”

“I never supposed that.” Jack thought of the bank draft he’d just written to Sir Leslie Bagwell, and drank the last of his brandy. “How badly have you fleeced him, now that you bring it up?”

She glared at him. Jack realized he’d been watching her and got up from his chair. He went to pour more brandy because one glass was clearly not going to be sufficient. On impulse he poured a glass of sherry as well and brought it to Mrs. Campbell.

“Thank you,” she said in surprise. She tasted the wine, and her eyelashes fluttered closed in patent delight. She sipped again, and her lips glistened wet with sherry.

Jack stared. God, her mouth. He resumed his seat, eyes trained on her. He was damn near bewitched by everything she did. When she opened her eyes again, he made himself look away from her bare ankle and her shining hair and most of all her mouth.

“A few hundred pounds at most,” she said in belated answer to his question. She tilted her head and faced him. “Not all at once, of course, and I do lose to him from time to time.”

“But not often, I take it.”

She swung her feet up onto the cushion, pulling her knees up under her chin. She took another sip of sherry before setting the glass down. “No, not often. He plays recklessly.”

“How so?”

The firelight flickered on her face, giving her a pensive air. Jack tried not to notice that her bare toes were peeking out beneath the hem of his dressing gown. She’d kicked off the plain pair of slippers, which no doubt belonged to Mrs. Gibbon. It was completely unlike the vision he wanted to have of her as a scheming charlatan, angling to seduce her victims into ruin. It could be an elaborate play to persuade him of her innocence, but if so, it was the best Jack had ever seen.

“He never plays the odds,” she said after a moment. “He always raises the stakes, even when he should not. And then . . . Well, there’s no other way to put it. He’s got dreadful luck.”

“Not like you,” Jack murmured.

Her smile was twisted. “His luck is nothing like mine.”

There was an undercurrent in the words he couldn’t place. “Then that means he’s got no sense, either, if he persists in playing recklessly without even the veneer of good luck to carry him through.”

“He persists because he doesn’t fear losing.” She rested her chin on her knees and smiled at his expression. “I presume that is due to you.”

“Not as a general rule.”

“The last resort is almost as reliable,” she said, unperturbed by his clipped response. “Especially if one knows it will always be there when needed. Gambling is about risk, you know, and a guarantee is rare.”

He knew all that. In his younger days, before he was a duke, Jack had been fond of a good wager himself. Never dice, and rarely cards; his wagers had been more personal. Could he beat his mate Stuart Drake in a carriage race from London to Greenwich? Yes, he could, and win twenty guineas in the process. Could he bag more birds on the heath than the other gentlemen out shooting? Yes, he could, for another ten pounds. Could he win a dance with the prettiest girl in any assembly room they passed, without telling her his title—­which, Aiden Montgomery had once alleged, was outright cheating? Yes, he could, and lighten every friend’s purse by another handful of guineas.

But then he’d inherited and abruptly such frivolous pursuits were beneath him—­not that he had time for them anyway. His father had expected to live to age ninety, not drown just shy of fifty. Jack had expected to live the carefree life of an heir, not inherit every responsibility before he turned thirty. Wagering on carriage races became a quaint, almost childish thing.

“Is that what appeals to you?” he asked instead. “The risk?”

She laughed, although without much humor. “Oh no. I prefer to think of it as the chance of winning rather than the risk of losing.”

Of course. Jack tore his gaze away from her bare toes again. “Spoken like a true sharper.”

“Which you believe me to be.” Another twisted smile.

“Are you not?” he drawled. “You frequent a gaming hell and routinely relieve people such as my brother of large sums of money. You admit you were eager to relieve me of five thousand pounds.”

“You proposed the wager,” she said, unrepentant. “I’d like very much to know why.”

Hoist by his own petard. Jack drained his brandy and contemplated the empty glass. Two was enough. Any more and his wits—­already lacking this evening—­might desert him entirely and lead him to do something irretrievably stupid. Her bare toes tormented him. “Nothing but a useful device,” he murmured.

“To separate me from Philip?” She scoffed. “If so, it was completely unnecessary. I already told you I didn’t wish to play hazard with him. He interrupted my evening and maneuvered me into the game. I know well enough to be wary of Philip.”

He gave her a jaundiced look. She hadn’t looked wary at all in Vega’s, blowing kisses to the dice in Philip’s hand.

“I do,” she insisted. “Contrary to what you may think, I don’t want to beggar anyone, and I don’t like watching my friends run themselves into ruin. I consider him a friend, but he’s become a bit overbearing lately. If you had simply drawn me aside and asked my help in getting him away from the gaming tables, I would have happily given it.” A trace of a mischievous smile touched her lips, and Jack’s stomach contracted involuntarily. “For far less than five thousand pounds, even.”

She was tweaking him. “Philip fancies far more than friendship from you,” he replied, repaying the jab.

Her face froze for a moment. But not in surprise; she knew Philip wanted her. He couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or not by that fact, though. It hit Jack that she was very good at hiding her feelings and emotions.

But then in a flash she turned into a cooing society miss. Her eyes widened and a simpering smile crossed her lips. “Does he?” she said in a wondering tone. “Good heavens. I’ve never discovered a gentleman had warm feelings for me through his brother.” She gave him a breathless hopeful look. “Is he madly in love? Should I prepare myself for a proposal of marriage? Shall we soon be brother and sister, Your Grace?”

God no. Jack barely kept his seat at the thought of his woman as this sister-­in-­law. She would run Philip in circles and he . . . he would end up in an early grave, watching her with his brother. “You’d be a fool to accept him, if he were to propose. He has no fortune of his own, and he wastes his income at the hazard tables.”

She laughed merrily. Jack smiled before he could help it. “Your face! Did you think I meant it?” She shook her head, still smiling. “Of course I would never accept Philip, for matrimony or other entanglements. He’d make a terrible husband and I—­”

“Yes?” he prodded when she stopped short.

She licked her lips. “I know he’s far above my touch,” she finished lightly. “The brother of the Duke of Ware! I would never dream of setting my cap at such an eligible gentleman.”

That was not what she’d been about to say. Jack leaned forward to set down his glass, and used the chance to shift in his chair so he could see her better. “Some women would seize their chance to land such an eligible gentleman.”

“Would they?” She smiled artlessly and raised one shoulder. “I suppose I’m not like most women.”

Yes . . . but why not? What was it about her that teased him and lured him, even when he knew he should be disapproving and disdainful? He had to clear his head about her. He had to clear his head of her. “I can see that,” he said evenly. “You gamble and freely admit you like to win, but then you say you don’t want to beggar anyone. A true gamester wouldn’t care. That makes me think you’re playing a different game. When I suggested Philip might want more than merely your company, though, you went to great lengths not just to deny it, but to mock the very idea. Too great, in my opinion—­it was not a novel thought to you.

“It could be you’re not prowling the gaming hells of London in search of a wealthy protector and find the thought offensive or demeaning, but you didn’t fly into outrage when I said it. You know he wants to bed you, and anyone watching how you flirted with him this evening would assume you are encouraging him. You’ve thought about what he would be like as a lover or even as a husband, yet claim to have rejected him on both counts. That leads me to suspect you are in fact playing for more than a few guineas at the hazard table, but Philip simply isn’t a plump enough target for you.” He tilted his head to one side. “Am I wrong?”

She had sat up straighter during his speech, returning her feet to the floor. Now she was staring at him, her lips parted, her eyes dark. “Put a lot of thought into it, have you?”

“Not much,” he returned. “I’d never heard of you before tonight.” He couldn’t stop his eyes from dropping to the dressing gown. It gaped open a little, revealing a tantalizing hint of bosom. His blood surged no matter how he tried to quell it. “But I recognize your kind.”

For a moment he thought he’d finally rattled her. Her eyes flashed and she inhaled unevenly, but again she recovered. “Of course you would think so.” Her smile this time was forced. “Good night, Your Grace.” She rose and sank into a flawless curtsy, and the velvet banyan slipped open a little more. Now he could see the shadow between her breasts.

His mouth dried up. Nothing. She wore nothing beneath it. Mrs. Campbell regally flipped the hem of the banyan out of her way—­her legs were bare all the way up, curse it all—­stepped into the slippers and walked out of the room without another glance at him.

And even though Jack suspected he’d scored a direct hit with his last remark, all he could think about was her bare feet.