Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season) (6 page)

Vane granted himself the guilty pleasure of drinking her in, of committing to memory the way she looked now. The fire’s glow painted red streaks in her mahogany hair. The simple lines of her unadorned gown, no doubt intended to be demure, only intrigued him, revealing the narrow column of her torso, and in alluring contrast, the high fullness of her breasts.

He remembered the body under that dress and the pleasure it had once given him in the shadowed privacy of their marriage bed. The memory of her naked, illuminated by morning’s first light, was enough to awaken within him now a low, simmering madness. The understanding that he could never freely touch her again only intensified his need.

But words had been said. The decision made. He would prove himself a better man by seeing their separation through and giving her some hope for happiness, in a world that did not include him. He owed her that much.

Bloody hell, he was such a martyr. He made himself sick.

She left the stove, making no effort to assist him. Finding a cup, he poured tea, needing something to occupy himself besides mooning after her like a love-struck idiot.

“There is no need to scowl at me,” she muttered in a low voice.

The accusation startled him. “I wasn’t scowling at you.”

Though he ought to be, given their circumstances. Shouldn’t he hate her? God help him, he couldn’t. They were both wounded, the two of them.

She glanced pointedly at the cup in his hand. “I can’t imagine you would be so displeased over a cup of tea, so it must be me that displeases you.”

“It’s not you or the tea.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I did not sleep well.”

“Neither did I, but I’m not scowling at you.”

He managed a smile. A small one. “Actually, you are.”

Her lips parted, as if to offer some smart retort, but closed just as quickly. She sighed. Her expression softened, as did the rigidity of her posture. A bright flush rose into her cheeks.

“Oh, Claxton, let’s not bicker.” She exhaled morosely.

“Very well.” He seated himself on a high stool. “Let’s not.”

“Unpleasantness between us will accomplish nothing but a loss of dignity for us both, privately and in public.”

He’d always found the velvety tone of her voice soothing. He answered inanely now for the simple purpose of ensuring her response. “I am in complete agreement.”

“It’s not as if we are the first husband and wife to ever discover we are not well suited. This is a time for level heads and controlled emotions.”

The memory came out of nowhere, shocking him. Her lips pressed against his skin,
willingly
, in a moment of passion. A shadowy glimpse of her naked body beneath his, her soft thighs outspread.

He shifted on the stool, suddenly tight in the breeches.

He growled, “I shall endeavor to remain so.”

“I shall as well.” She let out a sudden breath—of relief or frustration, he did not know—and searched the room, her attention at last settling on the stove. “I built only a small fire. Being that we are departing shortly, it wasn’t practical to make anything larger.”

He crossed to the window and peered out, savoring the warmth of the earthenware mug in his hands.

“You’ve looked outside?” he said incredulously.

The forest encircled the back of the manse, a smudge against a white winter sky. There were outbuildings and a stable, and at the edge of the gardens, the cemetery encircled by a stone wall. All nearly obscured by snow.

The cemetery. His mother would be there. After she had died, his father had arranged for the paltriest, most shameful of monuments. As soon as he could arrange for it, Claxton had commissioned a memorial much more worthy of a duchess. Life had prevented him thus far from visiting her grave site for himself. Perhaps, more truthfully, he’d found reasons to stay away.

What would his gentle, kind mother think of him now? He could not help but believe she would be deeply disappointed that despite her love and motherly efforts, he’d turned out much like his father.

“Of course I have.” Sophia came to stand beside him, leaving a generous foot of space between them. Even so, his body reacted with awareness, with every muscle drawing tight. Feigning insouciance, he lifted his cup.

On the first sip of tea, he choked.

“What is wrong?” she asked, frowning.

“
Och
—nothing,” he sputtered, unwilling to tell her the dreg plastered at the back of his throat was the worst excuse for tea he’d ever had the misfortune to imbibe. He’d found better on the battlefield and at the lowliest roadside inns.

She bit her lower lip. “It’s so rare that I prepare tea myself, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the proportions.”

Proportions? He wasn’t even certain that the contents of the cup were tea. Obviously, Sophia lacked practical skills in the kitchen, which of course was not uncommon among young women of her elevated social standing, who were expected only to plan meals with impeccable taste, with instructions to a fully staffed kitchen, not actually prepare them.

She bent over her valise. When she stood again, she held a thick gray scarf, one she proceeded to drape over her shoulders and tuck around her neck. Then she drew gloves onto her slender hands.

“What are you doing?” he asked stupidly, though her intentions were clear. Tension tightened the muscles along his shoulders.

“Going down to the village.” Settling her cap onto her head, she tied its sash below her chin. “Perhaps things aren’t so dire there as they appear here. Activity may have the streets cleared. Certainly someone will hire out a horse and carriage to convey us to London.”

Her words incited no small amount of turmoil within him. Once returned to London, she would withdraw from him completely to the protective circle of her family. Wolverton would step in. Though inevitable, he wasn’t ready yet.

Bloody hell, why not? Like a coward, he’d abandoned her, and she’d already made clear she would never forgive him. The sooner they got on with their separate lives, the better for them both. Especially him. He hadn’t slept with a woman in nearly a year and intended to resolve that matter as soon as he returned to London. After all, hadn’t she all but released him from their marriage vows? Once he’d relieved that particular urge, no doubt the world would become right again. If only he believed that.

Regardless, one glance outside proved they were going nowhere. Last night’s storm had been uncommonly severe.

“This is Lacenfleet, not London,” he said. “There will be no organized efforts funded by the municipality to clear the streets. Even if the citizenry endeavors to dig themselves free, ice floes on the river have likely rendered the ferry and any other rivercraft out of service.”

“Certainly there is another route to London other than the ferry?” Her brows furrowed, and her voice took on a desperate edge. “One by land that would eventually take us to a bridge? The mail coaches would still be running.”

“Not in this uncommon storm and not to Lacenfleet. It’s too small and inconsequential a village to command such extraordinary efforts. Even if the roads leading northward could be discerned beneath this depth of snow, they are not paved and would be a frozen bog. Any travel, I’m afraid, would be too dangerous, not only for you but for the horses. It is doubtful you’d find anyone willing to chance the trip. People here just wait things out.”

At this, her gaze dropped. Clearly the idea of spending just another moment in his company made her miserable. His heart hardened against her a fraction more.

He set the cup down. “I’ve no more wish to remain here than you, but we’re better off staying here until the frost subsides. Certainly we can suffer each other’s presence for just a day. Two at the longest.”

She did not remove her scarf, but neither did she reach for her valise. “I will not spend my Christmas here with you.”

“This may come as a shock to you, but I don’t particularly wish to spend mine with you either.” He stepped back toward the doorway. “But Christmas is seven days away. No doubt by then the weather will clear. For now, I intend to build a fire in the great room. There are books there, old, but readable, with which to pass the time.”

She responded with a slight nod. “Yes. Build a fire if you wish.”

Moments later, from the snow-covered front lawn, Sophia paused for one last look.

Camellia House peered back at her through broad mullioned windows, an Elizabethan fantasy of pinnacles, dormers, transoms, and chimneys. She could only imagine how in summer, the wild, terraced gardens, riotous with color, would run clear to the woods. She would have loved to explore every nook and cranny of the residence and grounds, but simply could not remain in such torturous proximity to Claxton for another minute.

Not when her sensible mind told her everything between them was finished. If only she did not cherish so many memories of their life before. They haunted her like friendly, well-intended ghosts, blurring her mind and making her forget, however momentarily, how intolerable life as his wife had become.

Instead she would rip the bandage from the wound quickly, no matter how much pain it caused her, and assume her new role as an independent lady posthaste. Her present and future happiness depended on it. Once returned to London, she would seek the comfort of her family, accept the counsel of her grandfather’s attorneys—and most important, put herself into a proper frame of mind for resuming temporary intimacies with Claxton, something that even now she couldn’t imagine without experiencing an unbidden rush of fever and desire. But simple attraction couldn’t erase the past.

Turning, she wobbled, momentarily disoriented by the sudden give of snow under her boot and a blinding expanse of white that gave little indication of space or direction. Thankfully, a discernible, smoother swath undulated down the hill, indicating the path of the elevated private road she must follow to reach the village.

She embraced her valise with both arms and proceeded, stepping high and quick so as not to drag her hem and stockings against the snow.

All to no avail, because with each step the snow sank suddenly and gave, dropping her in above her knees.

My, it was cold, especially under her skirts. Perhaps the ladies’ drawers that she had read about in
Ackermann’s Repository
, fashioned of Spanish lamb’s wool (and warranted never to shrink!), would not be such a terrible addition to one’s winter wardrobe. But if she kept this rapid pace, she would arrive in the village easily in less than half an hour. There, she would find an inn and tea and, she felt quite sure, enough fresh, warm rolls to make her forget her insufferable husband.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.
With each step, her valise grew heavier.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Lord, she hadn’t even reached the bridge. Cold permeated her boots and wool hose, numbing her feet and, worse, her bottom. She paused, gasping for the next painful breath, and assessed her plight.

No, she assured herself, her decision to walk to Lacenfleet had
not
been an ill-conceived folly. It
wasn’t
far to the village. Still, it seemed as if the private road had been laid out with the intent to provide arriving visitors with an impressive view of the house, rather than to convey a person from one place to the next in an efficient fashion.

She squinted, peering through the fog and snow. If she cut across the paddock and that little ditch, she’d join up with the public road and arrive in Lacenfleet even quicker.

Despite the snow lying deeper in the paddock than on the road, she at last arrived at the ditch, which upon closer inspection was not quite as little as she’d believed. Earthen walls cut rather steeply to a frozen, stony brook bed below. The smooth leather soles of her ladies boots, while suitable for a walk in the country, were less than ideal for such rugged terrain, especially when glazed with frost. Even so, she wasn’t about to declare a retreat. By doing so, she’d increase what had become a miserable excursion by at least another ten minutes.

She dropped her valise to the stones below and gingerly began her descent.

S
ophia?” Vane traversed the vestibule, his mood darkening with each step.

He’d not located her in her room or the kitchen or elsewhere in the house. His wife had vanished. Not knowing where else to look, he ventured onto the porch to dispel the unlikely notion she might have ventured outside, which of course, she would not have done without telling him.

He sighted her instantly, a crimson spot in the paddock.

“Damn my eyes,” he shouted, his breath clouding the air.

How reckless for her to venture off into such inclement conditions and without telling him first. Without even having the courtesy to say good-bye. Bloody hell, she provoked him, but all he could think was that he had to get her back.

He stormed half across the field in pursuit when he heard her exclamation. Flailing, she dropped from view.

A sickening terror rose in his throat, along with the unforgettable details of another fateful fall. Vane broke into a run, sliding to a halt at the edge of the ditch. She sprawled supine, eyes wide open to the sky, her redingote and skirts flipped high, revealing her stockinged legs up to her garters.

Dead.
This time
Sophia was dead. This time, in her determination to escape him, she’d broken her lovely neck.

Scrambling over, he skidded down. Ice, rocks, and earth crumbled.

By the time he slid to a stop beside her, she stood on her feet, smoothing her skirts.

“Don’t say
anything
,” she muttered sullenly.

Thank God for his greatcoat. Otherwise, she would see the unmistakable evidence of his heart having exploded out of his chest. He couldn’t breathe. For a moment he felt certain
he
had died. He wanted to grab her by the arms and examine her body from head to toe for any sign of injury. He swallowed hard, struggling to temper his response.

“Good God, Sophia,” he shouted hoarsely. “Are you certain you aren’t hurt?”

“I’m perfectly well,” she answered testily.

“You shouldn’t have gone out in this weather.”

“I walk all the time and not always in perfect weather.”

He forced himself not to shout at her. “You shouldn’t have gone without telling me. What if I hadn’t seen you?”

“Ugh.” She clasped her hands over her ears, like a naughty child suffering an unwanted lecture. “I wish you hadn’t.”

“Come along.” With a scowl, he thrust the heel of his Hessian into the frozen earth and extended his hand.

She ignored his offer of assistance. Instead she bent to retrieve her valise, which had popped open and fallen onto its side. The open gap offered a tantalizing glimpse of something ivory trimmed with frilly violet lace. She stuffed the errant garment inside and secured the clasp. “You owe me no such courtesies.”

He did not withdraw his hand. “What sort of gentleman would not offer assistance in such a situation?”

She sniffed dismissively. “You have offered assistance, and I have declined. Now go.” She made small shooing gestures with her gloved hands. He could not recall the last time he’d been shooed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said with all imperiousness.

“I’m not ridiculous.” Dark lashes flared wide against pale skin. “And I require no escort, which is precisely why I did not ask you to escort me initially. Your duty is done. Isn’t that what we decided on? I felt certain that’s what ‘I want a separation’ meant, that we would go our separate ways. So go yours now and I’ll go mine, at least until after the agreements are drawn. Then we will make arrangements to…well, to…” She exhaled.

“To do what?” he asked darkly, wanting to make her squirm, which to his satisfaction, she did, bristling up like a porcupine.

“Just leave me,” she exclaimed, leaning toward him. “Return to the house, and I will continue on to the village.”

“What happened to ‘Let’s not bicker, Claxton’?” He raised his voice several octaves in an imitation of hers.

“I’m not bickering.” She jabbed a finger at him. “You are.”

His head pounded at her obstinacy. “Did you not see how I found you? I thought you’d broken your neck. Don’t pretend as if a fall is of no concern. As if you don’t remember—”

“I remember, thank you very much,” she shouted. Set against the bleak backdrop of winter, Sophia’s countenance blazed brilliant, with raspberry-blush cheeks and bright eyes, and just like that, desire struck him, like a kick to his gut.

“If you must know,” she added testily, “I rather skated down the incline, and so as not to fall chose to deliberately slide down on my bottom there at the end. Not the most graceful move in my repertoire, but I didn’t expect an audience.”

Valise in hand, she carefully maneuvered the frozen brook bed, her delicate boots crunching lightly on the ice. She proceeded to the far side of the ditch, a path that would take her to Lacenfleet and away from him.

She muttered, “I’m not made of eggshells. I will not break from a mere bump or shatter from cold.”

Well, good. He did not regret so much, then, the near violent urge to grab her and shake some sense into her. And then kiss her senseless again.

Damn, but he wanted to kiss her.

Something about the cold weather and the way she looked so delectable bundled up in her redingote, scarf, and hat, like a little present waved in front of his nose that he’d never be allowed to open, kindled an already smoldering fire in his chest. A consequence, no doubt, of living the life of a monk for the past seven months, two days, and five hours, trying to become a man worthy of—

He ground his teeth together. None of that mattered anymore. He had made mistakes for which there would be no forgiveness. Now effectively set free from his vows, he would have a woman as soon as he returned to London. A pair of them, perhaps—both dark haired and green eyed and who looked like Sophia, if that was what he needed to shatter the fantasy of her and forget.

Still, he would not be dismissed. Not after he’d found her like that. She’d gone down intentionally,
his eye
. He followed her, the frost cracking loudly under his weight to a greater degree than when she had crossed.

She twisted round and eyed him like a haughty queen. She made a beautiful, regal duchess. He’d always thought so. “Really, Claxton, your
husbandly
concern is admirable. But as of last night, unless you have forgotten, I am to become an independent woman. Accordingly, I would appreciate being allowed to resolve my own difficulties from this point forward.”

It had begun to snow again quite heavily. “Sophia—”

“Good-bye.” She gave him her back again.

In silence he stood, observing as she climbed a few feet up the ditch wall, only to slide, scrabbling for purchase, down again. This sequence repeated numerous times until, at last, the amusement of watching her fail played out.

Vane stepped forward over the stones and grabbed the valise from her hands.

“Ah—don’t!” she shouted.

He extended the case out of her reach.

“It’s not that you are incapable physically of achieving the feat, dear girl.” He bent, leveling his nose with hers. “Rather, the cumbersome nature of your valise
unde
rmines your efforts, as does the impractical style of your clothing. But if you haven’t noticed, it has gotten colder and is snowing again. Any further delay is foolhardy.”

He tossed the leather case high over the ledge, where it landed with a solid
thump
. “There. Now come along.”

He reached for her.

“Not with you—” She pushed his hand away, allowing him the opportunity to capture her elbow in doing so.

“Go. Up. Now.”

Leading her by the arm, he hoisted her in front of him and half pushed, half lifted her up the remainder of the ascent. Taller and heavier by far, he anchored them on the slippery slope. She blustered and protested all the way, and though he held his scowl, he could not deny taking pleasure from every touch. Even padded with layers of petticoats and wool, his estranged wife was a rare, lush confection, one he wanted to push down into the snow to taste, eat, and savor. To touch her underneath her clothes with his mouth and his hands until she couldn’t even remember what the word
separation
meant.

But alas, there would be none of that. As soon as they reached level ground, where she regained possession of her valise, she stormed, pink cheeked, away from him and down the snow-laden public road.

Furious at his continued efforts to torment her, Sophia fumed away, but with his long legs, Claxton easily matched her pace. Wordlessly, he wrested her valise from her grasp, freeing her of its burden. This time he did not demand that she turn back, but walked beside her, his boots making easy work of the snow. For a long while, they tromped along without speaking until she could bear the quiet no longer. She had never been one for successfully brooding in silence.

“How I envy you your Hessians,” she said, speaking straight from her mind. “Perhaps in the coming months, I will withdraw to the country. I’ll take to wearing men’s garments and boots and tromp through fields in search of adventure.”

He said nothing, only continued to make easy progress over the frozen earth. Before becoming duke, Claxton had been a colonel in the light dragoons, something that had inspired romantic opinions about him among the ranks of the
ton
’s ladies, herself not excluded.

Sophia saw those physical attributes in him now, in the powerful stride of his legs and the measured breaths he took through his nose. She struggled to keep pace and appear as untaxed by the effort as he.

More words bubbled up into her mouth, any silly thing to break the uncomfortable quiet between them. “Perhaps I’ll even take to smoking a pipe.”

He growled, “You will
not
smoke a pipe.”

“I will if I want to.” She wouldn’t, of course, but she liked saying so just to shock him. “Once we are separated, I’ll do anything I want.”

“Such as spend all your time with Havering?” he asked in a low, cutting voice.

“Of course not,” she answered, startled by the accusation. “Why? Did he say something to you?”

Claxton made a sound between a grunt and a laugh. He gave her his profile and stared out over the field. Obviously Fox had indeed said something to Claxton. The knowledge did not please Sophia, but came as no surprise. Havering had always been protective, since they were children, but more so since her older brother Vinson’s death four years before. He and Vinson had been best friends, sharing university and their grand tours together, not to mention the fateful trip where Vinson had been lost. Then, of course, her father had died, a man who had been more like a father to Fox than his own. Perhaps earlier in life there had been certain expectations, but she had married Claxton, and Havering had never been—and would never be—more than a friend. Looking at the duke’s scowling profile, she could not help feeling badly that he might believe otherwise.

“What will you do, Claxton,” she queried softly, “when you are rid of me?”

He threw her a sharp glance, but a long moment later, he answered. “I’ve not given the future much thought. Perhaps I will go to Jamaica, if my diplomatic duties so allow. Haden has properties there, worked by freemen, in which I’ve invested. I’ve long wanted to see them for myself.”

“Jamaica sounds a world away,” she observed softly. “Exotic and delightfully warm in comparison to our present circumstance.”

What if he liked it there so much that he did not return? What if she never saw him again, not even in passing on a crowded London street? Her chest constricted at that thought or perhaps merely from the cold.

“Of all places, why did you come here last night?” he asked.

Ice cracked and popped on the trees. A curious jackdaw swooped beside them, flitting from limb to limb.

Sophia adjusted her scarf, bringing it higher over her chin. “I’d seen the parish tithes recorded in the account books and inquired with the land steward about the estate. The house sounded charming and close to London and private.” She shrugged. “Weeks ago I wrote to the caretakers, a Mr. and Mrs. Kettle, with instructions that I would visit the week after Christmas. Last night on impulse I decided to take residence a bit early.”

That explained why the house had been in at least the early stages of readiness. Mrs. Kettle would have thrown herself into preparations immediately upon having received such word, to the best of her capability.

“You weren’t there when I arrived,” he noted. “Not as I expected you to be.”

An image of Claxton embracing Lady Meltenbourne exploded into her mind, jagged and painful. She blinked the memory and the hurt that accompanied it away.

“I delivered my lady’s maid home to spend Christmas with her family. She is newly hired, young, and quite homesick. I, for my part, wished to be alone.” She steered the conversation to a less emotional topic than the events of the night before. “The property is lovely. Why has the house not been kept up?”

“No one comes here,” he said quietly. “Not since my mother died.”

“I thought she died in Italy.”

She instantly realized she’d made a grave mistake in speaking those words. The sharpness of his glance cut her through.

“Italy,” he answered in a hollow voice. “No.”

Claxton had always deflected her questions about his mother and father, answering in only the vaguest of terms. Not every childhood had been as happy as hers. Realizing this, she had respected his need for privacy and never pried. Yet before their marriage, Sophia had overheard a stodgy society matron intimate that the duchy carried a scandal in its not so distant past. Only when pressed had her mother reluctantly shared the rumor that the Duchess of Claxton had years before abandoned the duke and their young sons for a lover and subsequently died abroad in Italy.

“To my knowledge, the duchess never visited Italy.” He stared ahead, his countenance stolid. “She lived here for as long as I remember, being a mother to Haden and I.”

Embarrassment and shame scorched her cheeks. After all the difficulties in their marriage caused by rumor, she of all people should know better than to repeat details gleaned from a scandal, details that based on her husband’s response weren’t even true. She could not help but feel that she had thoughtlessly maligned the memory of an innocent woman, someone close to her husband’s heart. She glanced at him to find his jaw rigid and his lips firmly set.