Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season) (16 page)

She stared up at him, eyes wide and expectant. Heat bathed the confines of the kitchen and a hazy golden glow from the stove. Behind her lay a sturdy table, the perfect height upon which to make love. The thought of her stretched beneath him on the aged wood, of rutting into her on a surface still strewn with flour and sugar, sent his already hard cock to twitching with impatience. Bloody hell, she was his wife and they ought to be—

He bent to kiss her—

“The cakes,” she exclaimed and twisted free of him. Her hands went to the place between her breasts, where she pinched and adjusted her corset. With a flutter of her hands, she cooled her cheeks. “How much time has passed?”

“Let them burn.” The way he burned. He groaned, suffering a physical pain at her sudden absence from his arms. “I’d be more than happy to forget the game. I propose we occupy our time in other ways.”

Wicked ways.

“Your lack of competitive spirit disappoints me,” she called without looking at him.

“Disappointed…you may be that,” he muttered, thinking how unhappy she was going to be once she saw the difference in their cakes.

“Let yours burn if you like. I am more than happy to claim the prize.”

Prize? His erection throbbed, dissatisfied. He’d almost won the prize. Primitive male rationale told him if he could only make love to her and pleasure her enough and get her with child, she wouldn’t ever leave him again.

She prattled on, taking up two thick woolen pads and approaching the oven. But her eyes were glazed and her cheeks flushed, proof she’d been just as aroused as he.

“I can’t wait to see them,” she declared shakily. “Don’t be envious when mine turn out better.”

“I’ll try.”

She bent and pulled her tins from inside the stove. He bit the side of his thumb. Certainly there would be no more kissing allowed after this. Hell, it might be days or even weeks before she allowed him to touch her breasts again. For that reason, if no other, he now felt a staggering degree of remorse for what he’d done.

“Hmmm.” Her cheek twitched, and she glared at him. “I expected them to rise more. But perhaps this is how they are intended to look?”

“Let me pull out mine, and we can compare.” He took the rag from her and carefully removed his cake tins, which boasted twelve perfectly plump, rounded tops.

Her mouth fell open. “Yours turned out completely different. I wonder why.”

Of course they had. His flour had been dry and he’d used the proper number of eggs.

Did he detect a note of suspicion in her voice? Too late for that. He tried not to appear smug. He’d also buttered his tins while she searched the cabinet for the missing twelfth heart-shaped tin, which he had strategically hidden behind the farthest row of pots.

With ease he turned his cakes out of their metal forms and sifted powdered sugar on them. Their heat instantly glazed the sugar into a thin icing.

Sophia, however, hadn’t managed to remove a single one of her cakes. Dismayed, she exclaimed, “They are hopelessly stuck.”

Of course they were stuck. After drinking that brandy, she’d completely forgotten to butter her tins. She knew better! But at some point, in
stealth
, Claxton had buttered his.

“Something stinks,” she muttered.

He did not glance up from the plate, where he arranged his cakes with meticulous care. “Probably just some crumbs burning in the oven.”

No, that’s not what she meant. That isn’t what she’d meant at all. With a knife, she at last chiseled one cake free. Or part of one. Half the heart remained in the tin.

“Don’t worry about the ragged edges. They’ll look grand once you sift them over with icing,” he assured.

“Yes, I am sure Mrs. Kettle’s decision will be determined
on taste
,” she said, eyes narrowing. Even without the proper number of eggs, hers would taste much better than his overly salted cakes.

“
I strategize
,” he had said. Well, Claxton, so did she.

She proceeded to chisel out the remainder of her cakes. He had plied her with
brandy
, and worse yet, she now realized,
kisses
. If she hadn’t been so befuddled by brandy, she wouldn’t have been such a willing participant. That probably wasn’t even true, but she felt better thinking it. But she wasn’t done yet.

Shoving the broken pieces together, she sifted sugar over them and did her best to arrange them in an appetizing fashion. Soon they were both bundled up, and Sophia seated in the sledge with their cakes held in her lap in two baskets so he could drive.

“Oh, dear,” she cried. “I’ve forgotten my mittens.”

He stepped down off the blade. “I’ll go back for them.”

How very gallant he was, for a
charlatan
. She gave him instructions where to find them, and as soon as he disappeared inside the house, she scrambled out from the sledge, pausing only long enough to secure her plate of cakes in the soft nest of the blanket. With a wicked laugh, she tossed his basket aside into the snow.

Mittens drawn from her pockets, she yanked the reins free and climbed onto the blades. She was much better at driving carriages and handling horses than baking cakes. She’d never driven a sledge, but how difficult could it be?

The first bend in the road answered her question. When the sledge swung wide into a deeper snowbank, the vehicle and animal leading it lurched to a stop.

“I couldn’t find your mittens, but I—”

Claxton’s voice trailed away at finding only the deep groove of the sledge’s blades in the snow to greet him. Not just that, but his cakes lay scattered in the snow beside his upended basket. Bells jangled in the distance.

A glance down the hill revealed the horse and sledge with Sophia expertly poised on the blades, reins in hand, her dark hair streaming out behind her.

Laughter welled up from inside his chest. “You little minx!”

Of course he hadn’t found her mittens. She’d tricked him. All along, his spirited young wife had been playing the game just as hard as he. Of course she had.

But the game wasn’t over yet. Grinning, he grabbed the basket and tossed his frozen cakes inside.

A flicker of movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention. Claxton raced in the opposite direction of the road, churning across the paddock, snow flying up in his wake. Amazingly, it appeared he carried the discarded basket of cakes. Curse his long legs and boots.

He proceeded past the place where they had crossed the frozen riverbed the day before. From a distance, voices shouted and laughed. On the hilltop that overlooked the village, children played. Several boys threw snowballs while another group raised a small army of snowmen. Still others streaked on sleds or barrel lids down the snow-covered hill.

“No,” she wailed, realizing his intent. Snapping the reins, she urged the horse to resume its forward motion. With a shrill whinny, the animal plowed forward, high stepping through the snow, yanking the sledge free.

But it was too late. Claxton commandeered a sled and barreled down the hill, his coattails rippling on the wind. Sophia urged the horse onward, down the public road and through the village, where at last she slid to a stop in front of the Kettles’ cottage.

The basket had tipped during travel, and several cakes had rolled across the floor of the sledge. Retrieving them, she blew them off and hastily returned them to the basket.

Claxton was nowhere to be seen, but a downward glance revealed fresh boot prints on the steps. Her spirits sank. Mr. Kettle opened the door and conducted her into the parlor.

“I’ll see what’s keeping Mrs. Kettle,” he said, disappearing into another room.

Claxton turned from the fire, where he stood warming his hands. A mirthful smile broke across his face. “Oh, Sophia.” He chuckled, his eyes lit with humor and admiration. “How delightful. I’d never have expected it of you.”

She stormed across the carpet. “You deserve being left for sabotaging my cakes.”

“I told you there were no rules.” He met her halfway, his wicked smile all the confession she required.

“You tried to get me foxed.”

He moved closer still. “I told you I played hard. That I would do anything to win.”

“You
kissed
me.”

He growled low in his throat. “I did more than that.”

She held on tight to the cakes for fear he would snatch them from her hands.

“I might eventually be convinced to apologize for it all.” He bent and seized her and kissed her hard on the mouth. “Except for the kissing and touching you. Never that.”

Footsteps sounded on the threshold. He released her and with a wink stepped back.

“I am told we have cakes,” said Mrs. Kettle.

“Yes, here,” said Sophia dazedly. Claxton threw her a smile of pure sin.

“May I see them, then?”

Sophia handed them to the older woman. Claxton did the same, retrieving his basket from near the fire.

“Dear, take her ladyship’s redingote. It’s become overly warm in this small room.”

Mr. Kettle assisted her in removing the garment. Unlike Mrs. Kettle, Sophia didn’t feel overly warm. Indeed, without her coat, she suffered a distinct chill. She crossed her arms over her chest and sidled a few inches closer to the fire.

The elderly woman examined the cakes. “Oh, my. The hearts are falling to pieces, and the medallions appear to be crusted with snow.”

Claxton glanced to Sophia, then back to Mrs. Kettle. “Perhaps taste will distinguish one from the other.”

Mrs. Kettle did not appear convinced. “Perhaps.”

She tasted Sophia’s offering first. “The texture is a bit disappointing. Very hard and dense.” With a shrug, she popped a pinch of Claxton’s into her mouth. She blinked, coughed, and swallowed. “Salt. Far too much salt. Mr. Kettle, where did I set my cup of tea?”

“Salt?” exclaimed Claxton. “No, that can’t be, I followed the measurements precisely—”

His gaze shot to Sophia.
“You.”

“Shenanigans!” declared Mrs. Kettle. “No surprise there. I do believe we must declare this particular effort a tie.”

“No matter.” Sophia glanced at Claxton and back to Mrs. Kettle. Her arms dropped to her sides. “I believe we have decided to work together to complete the subsequent quests.”

Mrs. Kettle looked up with a smile. Her gaze, however, veered in another direction. Downward to the front of Sophia’s dress.

“Yes, your Grace, I can see that you have,” she replied tartly. She burst out with a delighted laugh.

Looking down, Sophia saw the reason for Mrs. Kettle’s mirth. Each of her breasts bore a white, powdery imprint in the distinct shape of Claxton’s hand.

Vane could not help but delight in Sophia’s mortification, which he found no less than adorable. She had hardly been able to enunciate the words
good night
to the Kettles, let alone walk a straight line from the cottage to the sledge without his arm for assistance. Even so, they had completed the second quest to Mrs. Kettle’s satisfaction and were in possession of the third, which they had decided to open upon their return to Camellia House.

Though the sky already dimmed into a lavender twilight, once arriving at the top of the hill, on impulse Claxton drove out to where several village boys still sledded and urged Sophia to disembark the sledge.

“Wait here,” he said.

“Where are you going?” she asked, frowning.

He left her there without further answer. Returning the sledge to the bottom of the hill, he secured the horse and climbed the incline. From the edge she peered over, watching him make the ascent. Perhaps he was wrong, but he believed he saw a begrudging admiration in her eyes, an appreciation of his physical strength and his capability. Like a fool green boy, he very much liked the feeling of impressing her.

Still, to say she was happy would be a vast misstatement. Something was wrong, and he could not help but feel that that something had nothing to do with the handprints he’d left on her breasts and everything to do with their marriage. He didn’t know what to do. He knew only he’d had the most wonderful time with her today. Still, he knew the existence of that damn list hovered over them like a dark cloud. He’d do anything to make her forget.

“I’m weary and cold, Claxton. I don’t want to wait here while you sled with the boys.”

“I’m not going to sled with the boys.” He laughed. “I’m going to sled with you.”

“Me?” The stolid expression dropped from Sophia’s face. Her green eyes sparked with interest.

“I thought you might like to try.”

Sophia did want to try. He could tell by the way she peered down the slope and the small smile teasing the corner of her pretty mouth.

“What if I fall off? What if I go tumbling and my skirts fly up in front of those young boys and I humiliate myself worse than I already have today?” She closed her eyes. “Oh, Claxton. What must the Kettles think of me?”

He chuckled, pleased that she cared. Taking a chance, he slipped his gloved hand into hers and lifted her knuckles to his lips. “They think you’re delightful.”

“I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.”

Her eyes fixed on his lips. He kissed her and then she met his gaze. She let out a shaky breath and bit her lower lip. Her cheeks pinked, and he knew she was remembering, as was he, their passionate—yet unfinished—interlude in the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t be. We are married. They want us to be happy.” He pulled her into the circle of his arms and lowered his head—

Sophia paled, and she averted her face. “Not in front of the children.”

He glanced over his shoulder to find they had an audience of at least seven, all gaping at them with wide eyes and open mouths. Reluctantly, he released her and drew back but retained possession of one of her hands.

“What can I say?” he murmured intimately. “You make me forget myself.”

“Claxton—” Still, she refused to meet his gaze.

And he knew with a sudden intensity, he did not want to hear what she had to say.

“Sophia, I’m going to go get on that sled and go over the edge.” His thumb rubbed the underside of her wrist. “Even though I’m not certain what’s on the other side. Perhaps the ride will be bumpy and rough at times, but for the most part it will be exhilarating. I promise.”