Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season) (14 page)

Before traveling to the house, Vane steered the horse and sledge to the village grocer for the purpose of purchasing the necessary ingredients listed in the recipe book. Outside the shop, furrows from other horses and wagons marred the snow, as did a host of footprints coming from all directions in the village.

When they crossed the threshold, the grocer, a Mr. Gilmichael, left the customers he had been assisting, two elderly ladies, and rushed forward to welcome the duke and duchess and introduce himself. Everyone else present gave a respectful bow or curtsy.

“How may I help you today?”

“Please do complete your business with your customers,” Vane insisted. “We will wait until you are finished.”

The two gray-haired ladies, dressed in heavy caps and dark wool clothing, nodded their thanks, and the grocer returned to his place behind the counter.

In a low voice, he counseled, “Now, you must understand, this is the last I can offer to you on credit with your account being so much in arrears.”

“Yes, Mr. Gilmichael,” one of the ladies answered with a nod. “We thank you for being so generous today.”

Vane sensed Sophia’s rapt attention to the conversation, and indeed, when he glanced down, he discovered her green eyes to be twin reflections of sympathy.

A moment later, the grocer presented the two old women with a small crate of coal, which they struggled to lift from the counter.

Sophia jabbed him with an elbow. “Offer to deliver the crate to their home.”

“Me?” he inquired. He was not in the habit of playing delivery boy.

The ladies held the crate between them and struggled with its weight toward the door.

“Don’t be haughty. Just do it,” she urged.

Just then, the door opened and damn his eyes if Lady Meltenbourne did not enter.

Sophia nudged him.
“Claxton.”

“Ah—pardon me, ladies.” He stepped toward the two, which appeared to startle them because their eyes widened and they dropped the crate to the wooden floor with a loud
thud
.

“Yes, your Grace?” they responded in unison, voices hushed.

“It would give the duchess and myself great satisfaction if you would allow us to convey your purchase to your door.”

“Oh no,” said the taller of the two, clearly mortified. “We couldn’t ask it of you.”

Sophia stepped forward. “It’s no trouble. We’ve a sledge, you see. If you’ll just provide us with your address, we’ll bring your parcel around once we’ve finished our shopping.”

The two glanced at each other. Again, the same woman spoke. “We’d be very grateful, then, if you’d deliver the crate to the orphan house.”

She provided them with detailed directions. After a profuse round of thanks, the two ladies disappeared through the door. Lady Meltenbourne, by now, had wandered off to the opposite side of the establishment and presently perused the offerings there.

“The orphan house,” whispered Sophia, her gloved hand rising to her mouth. “What a paltry bit of coal on a cold day such as this.”

She turned with brisk efficiency toward the grocer. “Mr. Gilmichael, could you please pull your account ledger? The duke and I would be interested in satisfying the outstanding debt for the orphan house and creating a satisfactory line of credit so that they can obtain the coal and food they require at times such as this.”

“We would?” said Claxton.

She threw him a sharp glare. “Yes, we would.”

Mr. Gilmichael presented the ledger for their review, and Claxton negotiated with Sophia a suitable settlement toward the cause. They also quadrupled the ladies’ purchase of coal for that day and purchased several bags of apples and oranges to add to their delivery so the children would have a special treat.

“Now, your Graces, what can I help you with as far as purchases?”

Sophia glanced into the recipe book. “Let’s start with citron.”

The grocer turned from her and selected a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and string, which he placed on the counter between them.

“My only package.” He smiled. “Not much demand for citron in Lacenfleet with the ingredient being so expensive.”

A short time later, when their purchases had been loaded onto the sledge and the grocer returned inside, leaving them alone, Claxton assisted Sophia into the seat. “For barely being my wife, you’re quite free with spending my money.”

“You’ve an estate here, which makes Lacenfleet your village, Claxton. It’s only right that you take an interest in its people. I’m certain the duchess did when she was alive. Not only that, but it is Christmas. If we don’t see to the orphans having what they need, who do you think will?”

Sophia was correct, of course. His mother would have done just the same. He could not help but admire her for her generosity. Such charity hadn’t occurred to him, not here in Lacenfleet or in the villages near any of his other estates. Which made him a selfish, arrogant ass, didn’t it?

“Mrs. Stone, the innkeeper, told me the people here have seen very difficult times over the last several years.” She spoke with quiet passion. “You have in your possession the power to change that.”

“Ah, but what you suggest now goes beyond simple charity,” he answered. “Once the river thaws, I’ve no plan but to shutter the house again. It’s not as if you and I would ever live here for any real length of time. I will, however, speak to Mr. Kettle over how to make better use of the land for the benefit of the village.”

Just as Claxton took his place on the blades, the grocer emerged from the doorway in a flustered rush. “Oh, your Grace, I’m so glad to have caught you before you departed. I’ve more gifts for the orphans.” He held two large paper sacks. “Peppermints. From the Countess of Meltenbourne inside. She asks that you deliver them with all the rest.”

Claxton observed a warm blush brighten Sophia’s cheeks, one he could only interpret as pleasure. She took the bags and settled them onto her lap.

“Please tell her thank you,” said Sophia as Claxton snapped the reins.

After a brief trip, they delivered the coal, fruit, and peppermints to the orphan home and remained for the next hour as honored guests, drinking tea and visiting with the children. The two widow caretakers could only press their faces into handkerchiefs when informed of the duke and duchess’s generous financial bestowal. Only then did Vane return with Sophia to Camellia House as a fresh layer of snowflakes fell.

Their morning had passed in pleasant companionship, the ugliness of the days before, while not forgotten, at least dimmed. Still, Sophia’s words of that morning sounded over and over again in his mind, that perhaps a separation remained the best decision for their marriage. But for his part, he could only see how well they got along together, just as they had before tragedy had pulled them apart. He had enjoyed their morning and could not be more pleased at how she and the Kettles had taken to one another. And their good deed for the orphans. He’d never been so moved by the simple act of giving a gift. And yet the gift would have gone ungiven, if not for Sophia.

In the kitchen he laid the fire while Sophia opened packages.

“Remember, the shopkeeper recommended that we dry the flour well.” Sophia placed two pans, in which she’d spread the powdery stuff thin, on a small table near the stove. “This will be your flour, and this will be mine.”

Vane, at Sophia’s direction, searched the cabinet for baking tins. “How very good of him to realize neither of us are experienced bakers.”

“Don’t try to throw me off, you sneaky devil,” Sophia teased.

He glanced over his shoulder, his attention immediately snagged by the velvety tone of her voice. “Sneaky devil?”

“I haven’t forgotten your words of warning this morning.” She turned toward him, her hair gleaming darkly in the lamplight. Her eyes narrowed, but playfully. “You aren’t to be trusted when playing this game. You likely have some knowledge of cookery from helping your mother and Mrs. Kettle.”

She wiped her hands on a linen towel.

He shrugged and shook his head. “That was ages ago.”

“Whatever you say.” She pointed at him and squinted. “I’ve got my eye on you.”

“Likewise, Duchess,” he drawled, his gaze slowly traveling down the length of her luscious body. “Though perhaps for entirely different reasons.”

“Claxton, now none of that,” she chastened, throwing the towel at him.

“You say that as if I can help it.”

Next, she placed two bowls of similar size beside each other on the large table at the center of the room. Standing face-to-face, they broke sixteen eggs into each. When that was done, Vane removed his coat, waistcoat, and cravat and rolled his sleeves high. Turning back, he caught Sophia studying him and was struck by an ache so strong the force of it stole his breath. Did he inspire admiration or dislike in her? He wished he knew what she’d done with that deuced list of names he had written out. If he knew, he would find it and burn it; then they could go on as if it had never existed.

“If you don’t mind waiting, I’m going to change,” she announced. “The dress I wore yesterday is much more serviceable than this one.”

“Go on. I’ll wait.” He could not help but add, “Unless you require assistance?”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said, disappearing through the door.

A smile turned his lips. Despite the fragile state of their marriage, he liked being here in the kitchen with her. Many of his most vibrant memories of his mother had taken place here. On cold winter nights, she had read books to him and his brother beside the stove. They’d played games such as hoodman-blind or Shoe the Wild Mare until their eyelids drooped, the loser always insisting on one more round. No one wanted to be the last to lose before being sent off to bed. He and Haden as boys had always taken games and winning seriously.

As for the game of lookabout, they’d refined that particular competition to a higher level. Sometimes the contest became downright ruthless but all in good fun.

Should he play in a similar manner against Sophia? No.

Claxton smiled. Or perhaps…yes. He was, indeed, a sneaky devil.

Ah, the dark arts of kitchen sabotage. He chuckled, pulling one tray of flour away from the fire’s heat, so it would not dry as thoroughly as the other. Damp flour would ensure a most disappointingly dense cake.

Now that he’d decided to take such a tack, he did not think it prudent at this juncture to tell Sophia just how much experience he had in the kitchen. After marrying, they’d enjoyed the benefit of a talented cook and kitchen staff, and somehow the subject had just never come up.

His father had granted the duchess only two servants, Mr. and Mrs. Kettle, so oftentimes meal preparation required more hands, and countless times as a boy, and especially around holidays like Christmas, he’d been drafted into service by Mrs. Kettle and his mother to turn the beef roast on the spit or to pound almonds for a cake. He’d observed and learned much.

Later in the military, he’d employed those lessons often while he traveled and lodged in rustic circumstances without benefit of staff or servants. Often he’d found himself with the barest of ingredients, with only his creativity to produce palatable results. Quite simply, he liked to eat, and eat well, and if there was no one to prepare a meal for him, he would prepare a reasonably fine one of his own.

Taking one bowl of eggs—the one he intended to be Sophia’s—he proceeded to the servants’ door, where, with the help of a wooden spoon, he disposed of
one, two, three, four
into the snow. With the toe of his boot, he covered the evidence of his misdeed. Returned inside, he located a whisk and set about beating the hell out of his perfectly portioned bowl of eggs.

Some quarter hour later, he heard her footsteps. Fireside, he slid the much-cooled tray of flour again toward the stove. He returned his bowl of eggs to the table.

As soon as she entered, he smiled. “Good. You are here. Let’s get started.” He picked up the same bowl and circled his whisk round the inside of the bowl. “I’ve set out a whisk for you as well.”

“A whisk? What is that?”

He lifted his. “It looks like—”

She waggled hers at him. “I know what a whisk is. It’s just very telling that you do as well. That’s all. Ages ago, indeed.”

He winked at her, and she looked away.

“Too bad for you, though,” she continued. “I do believe women have an innate talent for baking and sweets, regardless of experience. It’s all about following instructions precisely.”

“Instructions, yes.” Claxton took up the recipe book. “This recipe says to take care not to overbeat the eggs.” He read the words aloud. Or pretended to.

She halted, examining the contents of her bowl. “Well, then, I think they are beaten well enough.”

“Mine as well,” he said.

Any good cook knew eggs needed to be beaten relentlessly so the batter would rise properly. It was right there in the recipe, if she cared to look. Really, it was astounding the mischief one could do right in front of another person when that person was not in possession of a suspicious nature. He almost felt guilty. Almost.

“Baking is a messy business,” she muttered, dabbing a cloth at the front of her dress.

In the cabinet he found a length of linen, the sort Mrs. Kettle had always used as an apron, and came behind her to drape the fabric about her waist. She stiffened in the circle of his arms, and for a moment, he considered pressing a kiss to the side of her neck…

But instead he quickly tied the ends into a knot and proceeded to cover his own clothing in a like fashion.

Sophia exhaled, as if relieved, and lifted her arms to adjust one of the pins in her hair, the movement stretching her bodice over her breasts, revealing all their glorious rounded splendor.

She caught him staring and froze. Yet she said nothing as the blush suffused her cheeks. She only turned back to her bowl, which in his mind gave him permission to stare some more.

Claxton suffered both a love and a hatred of women’s fashion. While the simple dresses displayed a woman’s breasts most attractively—his lovely wife’s a perfect example—they concealed the remainder of her shape within the classical column of her high-waisted skirt. One could only guess as to the true slenderness of a woman’s waist or the lushness of her bottom. However, the makeshift apron, tightly cinched, confirmed what he already knew. Sophia was a goddess.