What a Duke Dares (Sons of Sin 3)

Feeling sick, she stared at the gold ring gleaming in the lamplight. It taunted her with the cruel reality that she’d never be his bride. “How… practical.”

He heard her implied criticism. His lips tightened. “You know the consequences if we’re discovered.” His tone bit. “It’s not as if you want to marry me.”

She sighed, depressed that he held a grudge when they both knew she’d done him a favor by refusing him. “Cam, you can’t still be angry about the proposal. That makes no sense. Especially when now we’ve met again, you must see that I’d make the worst wife in the world.”

His jaw hardened. “Don’t flatter yourself, Pen. I got over any youthful pique years ago.”

She wasn’t convinced, although it seemed out of character for Cam to be such a poor loser. Mostly he’d won their various games, but if he hadn’t, he’d taken defeat in good spirit.

“Well, stop harking back to it,” she snapped.

“I’m offering you a ring. I’m inevitably reminded of the last time I did that.”

Her heart lurched with futile longing. If he’d offered love along with the ring, they’d have been married nearly a decade. Gracelessly she shoved the ring onto her finger. “Life was easier when I traveled alone.”

“Stow it, Pen. We’re together until we reach home soil. You’re always cranky when you lose.” He settled into his seat, folding his arms across his powerful chest. His black superfine coat was so beautifully cut, it didn’t strain against the movement. The boy she’d known had been quick and strong, but nine years had turned Cam into a man ready to take on the world and win.

“I haven’t lost,” she said coolly. “I’ve retired to regroup.”

More displeasure blasted her way. He’d perfected the crushing effect of his stare since their last meeting. “Don’t cross me on this, Pen. I promised Peter I’d get you to England.”

She strove to remain uncrushed. “What happens when we arrive? Will you dog my footsteps until I perish of old age? Or irritation, which is more likely.”

His smile held no amusement. “Once you’re safely home, as far as I’m concerned, you can go to the devil.”

Chapter Six

Chetwell House, London, February 1828

Harry marked the moment that Sophie slipped from the crowded ballroom. Hardly surprising when he’d observed her every move.

All week, he’d waited impatiently to catch her alone. The burning need to speak about something more significant than the weather had built until it threatened to explode.

The night they’d met, he’d obtained a formal introduction. He’d managed a country dance and a schottische with her since—quite a feat when she rapidly became the toast of London. During their dances, he’d confined himself to platitudes. He’d had to be satisfied with touching her hand and delighting in the shy attraction glittering in her blue eyes.

Tonight, neither the watchful marquess nor Lord Desborough attended. Under other circumstances, Harry might admire Leath’s protectiveness. In worldly terms, an undistinguished younger son from a ramshackle family was no fit match for the Marquess of Leath’s sister. But surely Sophie should marry a man who adored her, rather than one who treated her as Desborough did, like a pretty pet to fuss over or ignore at his whim.

Harry didn’t move in Desborough’s exalted circles. But he had eyes and a brain, however rarely he’d exerted it. While he discerned no dislike between Sophie and the man touted as her husband, he discerned no genuine attraction either.

Damn it, she deserved better.

Whether she deserved Harry Thorne, well, that was her choice.

Harry tracked Sophie into the gallery. The long room faced the gardens with doors open onto the terrace. Fortunately, for February, it was a mild night, but even so, away from the crush, he shivered in the chill air. At the far end of the room, a couple he didn’t know bent their heads toward each other.

Sophie paused before a portrait of a bewigged, double-chinned gentleman. She looked beautiful tonight in rose silk and with pearls tangled in her upswept hair. Harry stopped a few feet away, waiting until the couple wandered into the garden without sparing him a glance.

“You followed me,” Sophie said, without turning.

What point prevaricating? “Yes.”

As he’d stalk a skittish animal, he edged closer. He stared at her vulnerable nape, wanting desperately to kiss her there. Wanting to kiss her everywhere.

It was too soon.

Still she didn’t glance back. “My brother warned me against you.”

Did the bastard, by God? “What did he say?” Harry kept his voice soft. He and Sophie might be alone, but they were still in public.