Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season) (21 page)

“I don’t want to be perceived as grasping. Of begging for your attention.”

His eyes widened as if in disbelief. “I assure you, you’ll never have to beg.”

She joined him, and together they walked toward the house. “It’s easy to say that while we’re here, cut off from the world as you and I know it. You don’t have any choice but to see me.” She hated speaking these words and voicing her doubts aloud. Lady Margaretta had taught Sophia and her sisters very early in life that much of a woman’s beauty came from confidence and a respect for one’s self. It had never been Sophia’s nature to plead for anyone’s reassurances. “When we return to London, everything will be different. There will be all the same people. All the same challenges as before.”

He pulled her to stand in his shadow, blocking the brunt of the wind with his body. The next gust sent his hair curling around his ears.

“After last night, you wish to paint our future with dread?” He reached for her hand and lifted her palm, spreading it over his heart. He frowned. “Don’t do that. Let me be your husband again. Give me the chance to make you happy.”

At his mention of the night before, she blushed. “You never used to say such romantic things.”

“I’m saying them now,” he answered fiercely, spreading his hand over hers.

And just like that, her resolve faltered. “How can I refuse you with my hand pressed over your beating heart? Yes, I will. I will let you make me happy.” She offered her bravest and most sincere smile. “I will strive to make you happy as well.”

She
would
be happy, even if that meant one day giving him up. For now, this was enough. It had to be, if she wanted a baby. Perhaps even now she already carried their child.

He rubbed both of her shoulders before grazing his fingers over the collar of her redingote. Gently grasping each side, he pulled her toward him for a kiss. His lips plied her gently, sweetly urging hers apart, purchasing entrance for his tongue. His hands framed her face, while his slanted, deepening the kiss. Just like that, like magic, her body responded. And not just because she wanted a baby. Because she wanted him.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he suggested against her lips, nipping the bottom one. “This time we’ll lock the door.”

“Yes,” she agreed, wanting nothing more than to be buried beneath a paradise of warm blankets with him, at least until Christmas Eve when she hoped they could emerge and travel all the way to London and surprise her family for the singing of carols and decorating of the tree.

They arrived at the kitchen stoop. “You go on inside and see if Lord and Lady Meltenbourne are finished,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt if things are not settled between them.”

He passed her on the steps and reached for the door. “We should have made them talk this out on the front lawn, or better yet, at the inn,” he muttered darkly. “I want them out of my house.” He bent to kiss her again, openmouthed and urgent. “I want everyone out but you and me. Once they’re gone, I’m going to shove all the furniture in front of the doors and perhaps even nail them shut.”

Cheeks flushed, she waited for him. It was not a minute before she heard his footsteps on the kitchen floor, and he came rushing out again, wearing an odd expression. “Ah…we can’t go inside just yet.”

Sophia’s hopes fell. “They are at odds again?”

Claxton’s eyebrows shot up. “From the sounds of things, they are very much in the midst of reconciling.”

“Oh, splendid.” She rubbed her hands together to create a bit of warmth. “At least they are still talking.”

“I wouldn’t call what they are doing ‘talking.’” He paled and flushed all at once. “I can’t honestly say what’s going on in there, but whatever it is, I don’t think we can interrupt without one or both of us being scarred for life.”

“Oh,” she said in sudden understanding. “Oh, my.”

“And no, I didn’t see. Thank God.” He laughed. “I only heard. I was too afraid to look.”

Sophia bit her bottom lip. “Clearly they need more time.”

“But who knows how much longer it will be?”

Disappointment cooled her ardor. That and the freezing weather. “How to pass the time?”

He pivoted on his heel, coming to stand side by side with her. Though he did not put his arm around her, warmth emanated from his coat where his sleeve touched hers. “With all the excitement, I’ve almost forgot that we have the third quest to complete. Sir Thomas still has that bee up his nose. Would you care to accompany me to the church?”

Sophia smiled and nodded. “Perhaps this will be the last one.”

The words inspired within her an unexpected sadness. She could not help but wish the game would go on forever.

Claxton set off for the stable. “I’ll bring the sledge around.”

In a silence broken only by the steady trod of the horse’s hooves and the
swoosh
of the sledge, Vane pondered the subject most prominent in his thoughts. His marriage to Sophia.

He should be satisfied. He’d won the return of her smile. They’d made love and would make love again. They even talked in pleasant terms about the future. But the pensiveness he’d glimpsed in Sophia at the cemetery troubled him. Had she agreed to the idea of future happiness only to appease him? If so, he would not press her further. He could not help but suspect she held some part of herself back. Could he blame her when he had done the same for so long?

Vane looked down at Sophia bundled up tight in the seat of the sledge, her gloved hands folded in her lap. He wished he knew what thoughts occupied that complicated little head of hers. Even though he knew he had no right to demand her unquestionable trust, he desired that prize no less, but he counseled himself to be patient. To simply enjoy this day together because it might possibly be their last before leaving this place and returning to their lives in London.

After the wide curve in the road, they arrived at the parish church, a place his mother had loved. He and his brother, not as much. Everything was just as he remembered—an impressive, Gothic structure with long windows, pointed arches, noble pilasters, and a spire that as a child he’d believed reached halfway to heaven.

“Let us go over our plan once more,” he said, assisting Sophia from the sledge.

In the spirit of subterfuge, Sophia glanced around to be certain they were not under observation. “I am to act as the distraction. The rector will be immediately suspicious of you because of the dreadful pranks you and your brother undertook when you were boys.”

“Correct,” Claxton said, chuckling rather subversively under his breath.

Claxton had also told her that in addition to Mr. Burridge being the rector, his mother had also, on occasion, retained the older man to be their tutor in various subjects. He and Haden had apparently been very naughty boys.

She recited the instructions he’d given earlier. “The key word to employ in distracting Mr. Burridge is
history
.”

“Very good.”

Together they entered the narthex, a narrow room formed of shadow and stone, where Claxton removed his hat. Upon their entrance, a heavily bundled, quill-thin man paused in his work stacking hymnals to shamble forth on knobby legs to call to another man who hung Christmas greens near the altar.

“Is that mistletoe I see mingled in with the greens? No, no, no, we can’t have druid’s weed in the church. Take it all outside, and remove every bit of it.”

Seeing them, he came to meet them midway along the nave. With each step, his breath puffed out in a cloud, visible in the frigid cold of the cavernous space.

“Your Grace.” The elderly rector gave a curt bow and peered down his prominent nose at Claxton, quite an interesting feat considering he stood a full two feet shorter than the duke. “What an unexpected surprise. I had heard you were in residence. At last you’ve returned after all these years.”

Claxton, looking every part the elegant nobleman, answered with all cordiality. “Temporarily at least, snowbound here by this uncommon winter frost.”

“Incommodious weather indeed.” Mr. Burridge sniffed. “Preventing all but three of my parishioners from attending services yesterday morn, the remainder confined to their homes.”

“Mr. Burridge, may I introduce you to the Duchess of Claxton.” Claxton brought her forward and introductions were made.

“What a lovely church,” said Sophia, peering up into the barrel-vaulted ceiling. “So much
history
.”

“Ah.” Gray eyebrows ascended Mr. Burridge’s wrinkled forehead. “You are a student of the arcane, then? Unlike his Grace, who as I recall, could never be persuaded to attend to his lessons.” His gaze narrowed on Claxton, as if fixing upon an old, familiar foe.

“No!” Sophia exclaimed in faux surprise. “Claxton, tell me that’s not true.”

Claxton manufactured a sheepish look.

Sophia returned her attention to the rector. “As for myself, I am fascinated by our glorious past.”

Mr. Burridge’s eyes brightened and his cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Then please, my lady, if you will allow me the honor of showing you the chapel’s most significant points of interest.”

Behind the rector’s head, Claxton nodded gleefully and gestured for her to continue.

Sophia bestowed an encouraging smile upon Mr. Burridge. “Nothing would delight me more.”

He gestured with a gloved hand. “Then let us begin in the nave with the font, which is cut from Turkish marble. Note the cherubim embellishment.”

It was too much to hope they would begin the tour with Sir Thomas, who according to Claxton’s prior description lay upon a stone table in the opposite direction, nearer to the narthex.

Instead they crept along for what seemed an eternity, pausing to examine every monument, coat of arms, statuary, and epitaph until Sophia thought she would faint from the effort of remaining so endlessly engaged.

Claxton’s attempts to wander away from them proved futile. On each occasion that he fell behind, Mr. Burridge insisted, quite firmly, that he return to the tour so as not to miss details he’d certainly not retained from their lessons during his childhood. After several failed efforts, Claxton followed dutifully behind, scowling sullenly, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You are certain I’m not boring you?” Mr. Burridge inquired for the thousandth time. A most attentive individual, the rector required constant nods, smiles, and assurances to ensure their progression.

“Not at all,” Sophia assured him, her throat parched from repeating similar niceties over and over again. “Why, each treasure is more interesting than the next.”

He sighed, pleased. “My thoughts precisely. It is so rare that I’m able to share these artifacts with someone who appreciates them as much as I do.”

Claxton, at last, came to stand beside her, so close she shivered from the heat he gave off. He touched her back and peered into her eyes.

“I do believe, my dear,” he said with deliberate intonation, “you will find the next statuary the most fascinating of all. Mr. Burridge?”

Mr. Burridge tilted his head as if he was unsure whether to trust Claxton’s sudden display of enthusiasm.

“Why, yes, I do agree,” he said, nodding slowly.

At last, they approached the sculpture Sophia believed to be Sir Thomas, who according to Claxton’s mother would have a bee up his nose. Whatever that meant, she could not wait to find out.

“This magnificent table monument fashioned of freestone dates from the sixteenth century. Upon it, as you can see, lie two figures, one an armed knight. Do examine the detail of his sword, as it is quite breathtaking.” He extended a hand toward the center of the carved figure. “And there beside him is his lady. Is she not beautiful?”

“Just look at their faces. So lifelike.” Indeed, the lord and his lady stared upward toward heaven, their faces forever preserved in placid contentment. Sophia could not help but notice the knight boasted a magnificent pair of cavernous nostrils. Above their heads were words etched in stone. Sophia read aloud. “Sir Thomas Longmead and his wife.”

One glance toward Claxton revealed the same relief she felt.
At last.

Sophia marveled over Sir Thomas and his bride long enough to avert any suspicion, then chose another point of interest to draw Mr. Burridge away. “Oh, look at that kneeling angel and the detail of its wings. What can you tell me about that sculpture?”

Sophia proceeded down the aisle, Mr. Burridge following close behind. Claxton, of course, lingered behind.

However, something made Mr. Burridge glance back. A lingering suspicion perhaps.

There, to Sophia’s abject mortification, Claxton sprawled atop Sir Thomas’s supine form, his fingers thrust inside his marble nose.

I
s there some problem, my lord?” barked Mr. Burridge. His narrow physique bristled with outrage.

Claxton jumped, his Hessians instantly returned to the floor with a resounding
thump
, his expression one of a schoolboy caught in a prank, eyes wide and lips slack.

Sophia, for her part, considered a dash for the door.

But a look of calm came over Claxton’s features. “I—ah—was attempting to clean his nose. There’s a bothersome bit of dust floating about his nostrils.” From his coat pocket he produced a handkerchief. He reached again, re-creating the same awkward pose, and rubbed Sir Thomas’s nose free of the imaginary dust. “It is our duty, after all, to keep Sir Thomas dignified. There. All tidy.”

Sophia clapped a hand over her mouth, desperate to contain the bubble of laughter that crowded the back of her throat.

Just then, a young woman and a small boy entered the narthex, each carrying a wooden box.

Mr. Burridge glared at Claxton reprovingly. “If you will excuse me.”

Joining the visitor, Mr. Burridge positioned himself with obvious purpose so that he could still keep his eye on Claxton. Under this scrutiny, Claxton joined Sophia, looking every part the guilty scoundrel.

Despite their peril, Sophia experienced the sudden, overwhelming urge to grab Claxton by the lapels and kiss him, which would be quite improper given their ecclesiastical surroundings. It was easy here, in the golden light created by the church windows, to believe that they would always exist in this blissful state of happiness.

She whispered, “So? Was there a bee in Sir Thomas’s nose?”

A conspiratorial smile slanted his lips. “Indeed, something is there in the nostril on the farthest side, the one closest to his lady.” He leaned closer to murmur in her ear, “But my fingers are too large to pinch the object out.”

“Oh no. That means—”

“Yes!” Claxton’s eyes glowed with delight. Clearly he welcomed this new complication, the higher stakes. “Sophia, you must get the bee.”

“But how?” she asked desperately. “When Mr. Burridge refuses to leave my side? And yours because apparently you have a peculiar fetish for dusting and cannot be trusted unsupervised with the antiquities.”

Claxton grinned. “For a moment I thought he would box my ears, just as he did when I was a boy.”

“I don’t believe he can reach your ears now.”

Mr. Burridge approached, boxes stacked across his arms.

“Hurry,” warned Claxton. “We must think of some new diversion.”

“Pardon the interruption, my lord. My lady,” said Mr. Burridge, his expression brittle with mistrust. “It is that time of year when villagers often bring Christmas tithes and other gifts to celebrate the season.”

Tithes and gifts. It was, indeed, that time of year. Sophia knew from her review of the account books that Claxton paid tithes once a year through his accountants. Somehow, the villagers appearing in person bearing gifts of butter and jam and chickens—necessities very dear to them—seemed infinitely more personal. All at once, it came into Sophia’s mind that she’d not heard a church bell ring since arriving in Lacenfleet.

On instinct, she inquired, “Mr. Burridge, tell me about the church bell. On what occasions do you ring it?”

“Ah.” Mr. Burridge issued a little sigh. “Our bell cracked two winters ago, splitting quite nearly in half. No donor has stepped forward with the funds to replace it.”

The perfect opportunity had just presented itself. How could she nudge Claxton in the proper direction without being completely obvious?

“Your Grace,” she said with careful emphasis. “You and I were just pondering yesterday—”

“What could be done to honor my mother, yes,” he said suddenly with a long glance at her. He’d stolen the words right out of her mouth, and she couldn’t be more amazed.

He tilted his face upward, and his gaze moved over the arched beams above them. “She so loved this church. A new bell would be a perfect tribute.”

She knew in that moment his offering had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the memory of his mother and his growing affection for Lacenfleet and its people.

“Yes,” she exclaimed softly, blinking away tears. “I agree.”

The rector’s eyes lit up like lanterns. “Your mother, a saint of a woman.”

Sophia said, “Mr. Burridge, perhaps you could show his lordship to the bell tower so that he might understand the contribution that would be required?”

All of the rector’s prior suspicion fell away. Indeed, he appeared on the verge of tears. “Why, a new bell would breathe new life into this old parish church.”

“Wonderful,” said Sophia. “I will wait for the both of you here. I would like to spend some time viewing the windows.”

She moved toward the nearest stained glass window, one which bore a brass placard at its base engraved with the familial name G
ARSWOOD
. Beneath that, on the floor, she discovered a porcelain bowl full of roses.

Ones with yellow petals and pink edges.

A half hour later, she and Claxton made their way through the snow to the sledge, Sophia still smiling from everything that had occurred. Their breath gusted out before them with each breath.

“Do you have it?” he asked.

“I do.” She opened her hand. A tiny scroll, bound with a faded strip of fabric, lay on her gloved palm.

“You ought to be a spy in the service of England, goose.” Claxton’s arm came around her shoulder, the admiration in his gaze and in his words more warming than any fire. “You truly were quite exceptional in there. Mr. Burridge, I must say, is smitten. Let us go to the inn for a quick meal. We can read our next instruction there.”

Soon they were settled into a table near the hearth. Just as before, the room was crowded with villagers, today unabashedly impressed by the presence of the duke, who had just that morning dueled the inn’s most infamous resident on his snow-covered front lawn.

Several of the ladies smiled at Sophia. There were even a few satisfied nods and winks. She could only assume they believed her the victor for her husband’s affections over the determined trollop, Lady Meltenbourne. At that, she felt some degree of satisfaction. She’d enjoyed herself exceedingly this afternoon and purposefully forbade herself from pondering deeper thoughts about their future, or the implications of the night before, although memories of their lovemaking never drifted far from her thoughts. She just had to keep things in perspective, be forgiving of her husband’s limitations, and continue to guard her heart.

As they waited for the innkeeper to bring their fare, Claxton drank ale and Sophia sipped from a steaming mug of tea.

“So let us see this bee that has been buzzing around Sir Thomas’s nose for all these years.” Claxton scooted his chair toward hers. They sat side by side, two conspirators discreetly examining their plunder. He rested his arm across the back of her chair, bracketing her between his body and the wall. Her skin warmed with awareness. She could see nothing beyond the high wall of his shoulder, cravat, and waistcoat, and an endless sprawl of finely turned male legs.

Sophia slid the fabric binding free and unrolled the little scroll on the table between them. He helped her spread the small rectangle, pinning two corners with long, elegant fingers while she secured the other two. His familiar scent tantalized her, made more complex by the lingering acridity of gunpowder.

Ah, but the quest. At the uppermost corner hovered a charming little bee boasting a wide, toothy smile.

“Oh, your mother.” She did venture a glance at Claxton then, only to have her breath stolen by startling blue eyes, which studied
her
rather than the quest. “Quite the artist.”

He agreed faintly, “Hmm, yes, she was.”

Underneath the table, his hand found her knee.

Breathless from that mere touch, Sophia read the quest aloud. “The hungry huntsman clamors for more stew. And look.” She turned the paper so he could see the drawings. “She’s drawn a rather fearsome fellow.”

“The huntsman,” said Claxton.

“You know something about him, just as you did Sir Thomas.”

He nodded. “There’s an old cottage in the forest; in times long past it would have been occupied by the estate huntsman. My brother and I used to play there, and sometimes my mother would accompany us.”

“And make stew?” Sophia leaned toward him, eager to hear more.

With a suddenness that stole her breath, his gaze went to smoldering, and he stared at her lips. His hand, still on her knee, squeezed. “Yes, actually, in an old pot, the ingredients being whatever we gathered. Stones, leaves, and sticks gathered from the forest. It was all very juvenile.”

“And charming.” She eased back in her chair, but he followed, just those few inches, teasing the nape of her neck with an upward brush of his fingertips. “Could we go to the huntsman’s cottage after we leave here?”

“I’d rather go somewhere else first,” he murmured suggestively.

“After we find the next clue.”

“The cottage was in terrible condition then. I’m not sure the roof has not fallen through. Our game may very well come to a disappointing end there. Time may have destroyed what was likely our final quest.”

“I hope not,” Sophia said. “Not when we have come so far.”

A girl brought out their stew, placing two bowls before them, a fragrant, steaming mutton stew. Reluctantly, he removed his hand from where it had crept up Sophia’s shapely thigh. Only after Sophia greeted the girl as Charlotte and made a fuss over her pretty hair did he remember seeing her before.

“Your Grace, the hairpins you gave me must have been magical ones.” The girl touched the neat coil of hair above her nape.

“Oh yes?” said Sophia. “Tell me, why would you say that?”

“I’ve got myself a suitor.” Her lips broke into a shy smile.

Sophia’s face brightened with surprise. “The farmer in the tall boots?”

“No, madam, the chandler with the fine cottage.” The girl’s face filled with color.

They chatted for a short time longer until Mrs. Stone cheerfully shooed the girl away. After the girl had gone, Sophia dazzled him with a happy smile.

“That’s wonderful to hear,” she whispered, her cheeks fetchingly pink, a likely consequence of their proximity to the fire. “I do hope Charlotte finds a happily ever after.”

Vane reached to touch her cheek, his tone solemn. “Happily ever after. A few days ago, I wouldn’t have believed in such a thing. The words sound as if they only belong in a fairy tale, don’t they? Not in the lives of
ever
yday people. But I think I’ve changed my mind.”

Sophia peered steadily back at him. “That’s a wonderful thing to hear you say.”

Vane could not help but think how perfectly Lacenfleet suited Sophia. Having seen her in London, so perfectly at ease with the most elevated members of society, he’d never expected her to take so easily to these simple folk and their quiet way of life.

When they were ready to again be on their way, Vane left coins on the table in payment of their meal, and he followed Sophia toward the door. Only at the center of the room, he impulsively caught her by the sleeve and slowly pulled her back around. Her eyes flew wide at the suddenness of his mouth on hers, but she softened in his arms and with a sigh kissed him back. Then, as if she remembered where they were, she broke away. Yet he refused to release her entirely, and he caught her hand in his.

“It’s all proper,” he said, pointing at the mistletoe above them.

From around the room came cheers of approval and laughter from the patrons.

“You see,” he added. “I think all these good people agree.”

Soon they traveled alongside the frozen river. Sophia leaned out with interest, watching as villagers, mostly young people, glided across the surface. Claxton drew the sledge to a stop. Within moments, he’d lightened his pockets of several shillings and secured temporary possession of two pairs of skates.

He would not have to instruct Sophia as she already knew quite well what to do. A happy memory came to mind of last December as newlyweds in London, when they’d skated on the frozen Serpentine. She secured the blade to the bottom of her boot and left him still working to fasten his.

She executed a graceful turn and shouted, “Hurry.”

Within moments, he joined her. He had not much experience himself with the sport, but being generally hearty and athletic and possessed of a solid natural balance, all such diversions fell well within his capability.

Together they stood side by side on the ice, Sophia peering away from Lacenfleet across the river. In the distance, the faintest outline of the spires and towers of London could be seen.

“We could probably skate all the way to the other side.”

“No, it would be too dangerous. The ice isn’t strong enough all the way across.” Again, just the idea of leaving Lacenfleet sent an undercurrent of trepidation through his blood, as if London, like the Thames, was a fast-flowing river and would tear her from his grasp.

She glanced up at him. “I have never spent a Christmas apart from my family. I know it makes me sound like a child, but the holiday and togetherness became even more important to all of us after Vinson’s and my father’s death.”

“It’s good that you have each other. That you are all so close.” He’d not been so fortunate in later years to have that sort of familial bond.

“It’s not just that.” With a turn of her ankles, she skated a small half circle around him. “As you know, my grandfather has been in ill health. It would ease my mind to see that he is well.”

“I know it would.”

“At the same time,” she said softly, coming to a halt. “I’m not sure, if given the chance, that I would change a thing about being snowbound here. With you.”

“Not a single thing?” he teased, reaching out to take her hand and spin her in a gentle pirouette beneath his arm. “Lord Meltenbourne shooting at us. Waking up to a lunatic woman in our bed. A duel on the front lawn?”

“Well, perhaps just a few things.” She grinned.

She skated off into the center of a group of children, who formed a circle about her. How ironic that the idyllic scene took place on the exact path the barge would take as early as tomorrow, conveying them away from Lacenfleet, to the world they had left behind. A clock ticked off time in his head, growing louder and more threatening with each moment. He could not help but feel that things were disintegrating around him before he was ready, before they were strong enough.