Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season) (7 page)

“I’m sorry, Claxton. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It is of no consequence.”

In a softer tone, Sophia sought to diffuse the tension between them with a less provocative statement. “I suppose many in the village will recognize you.”

“Let’s hope not.” His brows rose. “My brother and I, as children, were unholy terrors. I’m certain there are still unfortunate feelings.”

With that response, they returned to silence, having arrived at the edge of Lacenfleet. There, despair consumed her. From this vantage point she could see a portion of the river, the surface covered with large fragments of drifting white floes. Two barges were moored at the dock. As for the village, just as Claxton had predicted, snow buried the roads. Not a moving carriage or wagon or living person could be seen, though smoke arose from almost every chimney.

“Which way?” she said, unwilling to return to the silence and darkness of Camellia House after having come this far.

With a look of irritation, he pointed down a wide lane lined on either side by cottages with doorways almost obscured by drifts of snow.

“The inn,” he answered, words clipped. “No matter the weather, the villagers will gather inside. The livery is also there, though I’m certain you will not find transport out. You can see as well as I that no one is about and that we have come all this way for nothing. Careful there. The pavement is—”

Too late. She’d stepped off and crashed in thigh-deep snow.

“—lower there.”

She cried out at the discomfort, the invasion of cold where the chill had not gone before. Spanish wool drawers. Yes, she would purchase five pair upon her return to London. If she had them now, she would wear all five pair at once. Her redingote and skirts formed an unseemly puddle at her hips.

Claxton paused, his expression unabashedly
satisfied
. “Your Grace, do you require assistance?”

“Of course not,” she snapped, struggling to extract her legs and proceed forward. When they did not follow the rest of her body, she toppled forward into the snow, landing on her forearms.

Gasping for air, she almost screamed from frustration, but she would not grant her husband the pleasure of seeing her fall to pieces when it was she who had insisted on coming into the village in the first place.

Large hands grasped her shoulders, righting her. Claxton thrust her valise into her arms.

“Hold this,” he ordered.

Without preamble, he lifted her into his arms, crushing her to his chest. Snow fell from her skirts and boots.

“You’re damnably stubborn,” he said, plowing down the lane.

Frowning, sensual lips spoke the words just in front of her nose, impossible to ignore unless she shut her eyes.

“Not with most people,” she answered sullenly, not closing her eyes.

He’d not shaved this morning. Dark, glossy whiskers shadowed the masculine curvature of his jaw. She remembered the pleasure during their lovemaking of having his unshaven beard dragged against her skin. Sometimes in the mornings, she’d had to hide the abrasion marks left behind from the curious eyes of her young maid.

“Is it normally so difficult for you to ask for assistance?”

“Not at all. Just from you.”

He lifted a dark brow. “I don’t recall you being this willful before.”

His heat warmed her through his coat, a reminder of how wonderful it had once been to be held in his arms. He’d carried her in this manner before, but never on a public street. Only in the privacy of their bedroom and always toward their bed. Her heart began to beat faster, remembering how blissful things had once been—how they could never be again, because this was the man who had abandoned her in her grief, without as much as a regretful backward glance. As if neither she nor their lost baby had ever held a place in his heart.

A painted sign, encased by icicles, indicated that they had arrived at the inn. There were footprints, and the snow had been cleared from the wooden steps.

“It’s called self-sufficiency.” Sophia elbowed Claxton and kicked, wriggling free. She skittered away from him through the snow. Her body complained at the loss of his comfortable warmth and strength. “You were gone a very long time. I had to learn it.”

“Self-sufficiency, you say?” he muttered darkly. He followed, reaching to take the handle of her valise. “You would never have arrived at this inn without my assistance.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re quite welcome, by the way.”

Yet she held tight, seizing the case against her chest.

“You expect my thanks?” She blinked back a sudden surge of tears.

She’d been a coward at the house, sneaking out so she wouldn’t have to say good-bye to him face-to-face. He’d gone and ruined that for her. Now,
this
was good-bye, and the enormity of the moment created a ball of emotion in her throat, difficult to even breathe around. They would never see each other again like this. Didn’t he realize everything would change? Or was it that he just didn’t care?

For Sophia, there was something devastating about the knowledge they would never spend another moment alone again until after the details of their separation—settlements and annuities and agreements—were negotiated through intermediaries and finalized. In these last moments could he not speak to her with some gentleness out of respect for the happier times they’d shared?

With all the force within her, she yanked the case back, inadvertently jerking his hand in her direction because he did not let go. His eyes flared wide with surprise.

Of course she overreacted, and in a most irrational and childish manner, but in this moment she did not care. Her mind buzzed with hurt and anger, and she didn’t even feel the cold anymore. Did he not wish for them to have a decent and meaningful good-bye? They had once loved each other.

His jaw flexed. “This excursion was utter folly. Admit you were wrong in leaving the house.”

That he would be so obstinate here, on the threshold of the place where she would say good-bye to him forever, upended her composure. Once she regained full possession of her case, she could go inside, shut the door on Claxton, and convince her heart to forget him.

“Of course I was wrong. I’m a foolish, silly woman.
Thank you
, your Grace, for being such a gentleman as to point out my every failing,” she said archly. “And for being so much larger and stronger than me, your helpless, little wife.”

She backed away in an attempt to free the handle, but still he did not release it. Indeed, he gritted his teeth and held tight.

“Sophia—” he warned.

“But I’m not your wife any longer.” She jerked the case, throwing all her weight into the effort. “Not really, not for long, because you’ve made it clear, not just to me but the whole of England, that you prefer to be
anywhere
in the world and with
anyone
but with me.” And jerked it again. “So you’re
not
a gentleman after all and most certainly
not
my hero, so no, I’m not inclined to thank you for
anything
.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind and ice cracking and the echo of her words in her ears.

“Not a gentleman, you say?” he said in a hushed voice.

His expression dangerous, he yanked the handle
hard
, gaining possession of the valise and Sophia, who pitched forward along with it. The force of this brought her crashing against him. The valise between them halted her abruptly, her face inches from his. Her heartbeat raced wildly, but not in fear. With the attraction she struggled even now, in her anger and hurt, to conceal.

“It took you until now to realize?” he said, nostrils flared.

With a downward shove, he wrenched the case from her hand, throwing it to the ground. He stepped toward her.

“Don’t you touch me,” she gasped, retreating toward the steps, thinking to escape him, but he lunged, closing the distance between them to capture her face in his hands.

“Dear God, you drive me mad,” he growled, his eyes alight with blue fire.

She waited for the squeeze of his fingers, for him to twist off her head in the middle of the lane for being such a tiresome, troublesome wife who had ceased to bring him a single moment’s peace or pleasure.

His mouth fell on hers.

Stunned, she grabbed his hands to remove them, but…

Didn’t.

She gasped against his lips, inhaling his breath, and in an instant remembered all she craved. His full lower lip. The bristly texture of his unshaven skin. The taste and scent that was only, deliciously Claxton. Every particle of her being exploded with need. His hands found her waist. She grasped his upper arms. He groaned, devouring her.

The world around them faded into a maelstrom of desire, she only vaguely aware of the snow crunching under their feet as they danced, struggled…his hands—
her hands
—tangled in hair and wool. On skin.

“Claxton,” she breathed.

He made a guttural sound.

In a wild surge, all the anger of the past months exploded inside her, transforming the kiss into something more primal. She bit him. He nipped her back, a moment before his tongue entered her mouth to slide over hers. Consciousness blurred into a frenzy of pleasure and not-so-terrible pain.

Pain.

With a gasp, she thrust her hands against his chest and pushed.

Dazed and heavy lidded, he stared at her, his cheeks ruddy with passion, his arms bent at his sides, almost as if he’d never seen her before.

“Oh my God,” he exclaimed thickly.

Touching her fingertips to swollen and tender lips, she teetered on unsteady legs and wholeheartedly concurred with his assessment. They’d shared thousands of kisses, but never anything as magnificent as that.

Just then, something appeared to draw his attention to another point of interest above her head. His face turned just a degree and his gaze intensified. For a moment, she feared they had drawn an audience, that behind her stood the whole of the village of Lacenfleet, gawking and pointing.

A strangled sound burst from his throat, something that sounded vaguely like her name. He shoved her—

The world careened.

Her shoulder, her cheek, slammed into the snow. His body smothered her in darkness.

“
Claxton!
”
She gasped, bewildered, unable to breathe for his weight and the lapel of his coat smashed against her nose. His scent, woodsmoke and spice, filled her nostrils. Frigid cold worked through her clothes, chilling her backside. The snow numbed her skin. “What are you doing?”

He growled, “There’s someone—”

A
crack
shattered the air. Atop her, his every muscle went taut.

“Someone?” Sophia strained to see if a tree branch had given way under the weight of the frost, but—

“Stay down,” he growled, splaying his hand over her forehead and curling his body over hers.
Crack.
A split second later, a shower of snow covered them both.

His chest vibrated against hers as he uttered, “We’re going to have to run for the wall over there.”

The sudden realization came over her. A tree hadn’t made the cracking noise, but a gun. Someone was shooting at them.

“Who is trying to kill us?”

“I don’t know.”

A door slammed, and a woman screamed, “
Claxton.
Oh, Claxton,
he’ll kill you
.”

That voice. A familiar one. Footsteps sounded on the snow. Claxton’s head went up, turning sideways toward the inn. Sophia knew that for her own safety she should cower beneath him, but curiosity compelled her to see who screamed and ran toward them. She raised up onto her elbows.

“Bloody hell,” he uttered, his cheek pressed to hers.

Lady Meltenbourne bounded toward them, a vision of blue silk, bouncing breasts, and blonde hair.

“
Don’t kill him
,” she screamed, arms flung high.

She hurled herself against Claxton, knocking him off Sophia. At the same time, another figure sprang into the melee. Lord Haden burst out from the front door of the inn, coatless and shirttails flapping, a pistol in each hand. Sophia scrambled around so as to watch him, keeping low. His boots thunked heavily as he descended the wooden steps on long legs. Glassy red eyes set within his lean face surveyed the courtyard. His hair, a measure longer than Claxton’s, rippled in the wind, giving him a wild and dangerous appearance.

“Claxton, it’s your brother,” Sophia exclaimed to the struggling heap beside her. “He’s trying to kill you!”

She attempted to scoot backward over the snow, but her legs tangled in layers of petticoats. The faces of villagers peeked out from the windows, wide-eyed and openmouthed, some with steaming mugs raised.

A man’s voice shouted from inside, “Not the windows. Please, my lord. Spare the glass if you will.”

“I’m not trying to kill Claxton,” Haden bellowed, scowling.

Another shot echoed in the quiet, striking a distant patch of ground.

He whirled, aiming his firearms at the upper floor of the inn. “Lord Meltenbourne is trying to kill Claxton. Take cover.”

S
ophia felt herself jerked from behind and twisted round. Claxton lifted her high and carried her like a child against his chest, depositing her in the shelter of a stone wall.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded ferociously, his brows gathered and nostrils flared. His hand came to her cheek, forcing her gaze to his.

“No.”

“Are you certain?” His hands roamed her shoulders, arms, breasts, hips, and legs. She gasped at the intimate touch. “Sometimes when you’ve been shot, you don’t know it. Sometimes you don’t feel the pain until later.”

Again, his hand paused on her cheek, and she clasped it there. “I’m not hurt, Claxton.”

He nodded, dragging the pad of his thumb across her cheek, a tender gesture that conflicted with the anger in his eyes. “Stay here, behind the wall.”

But as soon as he was gone, Sophia crawled low against the cornerstone, desperate for his safety. No matter how miserable he made her, she would never wish him dead.

At the center of the lane, Lady Meltenbourne still lay sobbing, facedown in the snow. She wore no coat or cloak, only the gown she’d worn since Lord Wolverton’s birthday party the night before. Haden had backed into a position to shield her, pistols cocked and ready. He prodded her with the heel of his Hessian.

“Blast you, chit,” he shouted. “Gather yourself up and get behind that wall.”

Claxton, like the hero Sophia had only moments before proclaimed him
not
to be, headed straight for the countess, never breaking pace until he grabbed hold of her arms. The sight was undeniably thrilling, other than the unfortunate reality that her husband was rescuing a woman who made no secret of wanting him as her lover.

“Here the bastard comes again,” Haden warned, lifting his weapons. From the shadowed interior of an upper window appeared a diminutive man wearing an old-fashioned tricorn hat and saggy trews. He wielded a pistol in one hand and an earthenware jug in the other.

“Think ye’ll cuckold me, do ye?” he squalled drunkenly.

Haden pulled his trigger.
Crack.
The weapon recoiled. The earl’s tricorn spiraled off, exposing his bald pate. Another shot—Meltenbourne’s—sounded an instant later.

A fan of white pitched upward, inches from Claxton’s boot.

“Claxton,” Sophia shouted or perhaps screamed. If he died now, leaving her with the memory of that kiss, she did not know what she would do.

Lady Meltenbourne remained as limp as a child’s doll. The duke hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her to the same location where Sophia crouched. Haden followed, his pistol trained on the window.

Just then a loud crash sounded from inside the inn. A mob of men, arms flailing, overwhelmed the earl. Curses echoed across the lane, loudly at first, then dimmer as they dragged their prisoner inside.

Lady Meltenbourne sobbed, throwing her arms around Claxton’s legs. “You saved my life.”

Haden muttered a curse and rolled his eyes.

Claxton pried the countess off him and lifted her to stand. With a firm nudge, he guided her toward Sophia as if she were a sticky-faced child with hands covered in jam to be handed off to her mother. Annabelle’s teeth chattered, and she shivered. While Sophia could not bring herself to put an arm around the woman, perhaps by not stepping away, Annabelle benefited to some degree from her warmth and would not catch her death of cold.

Claxton blasted a frigid glare at his brother. “Why, may I ask, is Lord Meltenbourne trying to kill me?”

Haden shifted his stance and polished the barrel of his pistol against his cuff. “Er…well, because he believes you had a tryst with his wife last night.”

Sophia’s heart stopped beating, her first instinct, however fleeting, to believe what Haden said.

“How interesting.” Claxton’s nostrils flared. “I don’t recall having any tryst with his wife.”

“Mere details.” Haden’s chuckle carried an edge of anxiety. He holstered the firearm at his waist. “Thankfully, everything turned out well. We are all still alive.”

The tension in Sophia’s shoulders eased. Haden’s response corroborated Claxton’s story of the night before. Not that it mattered. They were to be separated soon. Weren’t they? Why had Claxton kissed her like that and thrown everything into confusion?

The duke fisted his hand in his brother’s cravat and slammed him against the stone wall.

“Ow!” Haden bellowed, eyes clamped shut in visible pain.

“Please,” wailed Lady Meltenbourne. “Don’t fight over me. You are brothers. Family.”

Sophia experienced the bizarre urge to laugh.

Claxton shouted into Haden’s face, “You would make light of such an untruth in front of my wife? Meltenbourne could have killed the duchess.”

Haden’s hands came up beside his head in surrender. “Last night, when I awakened in yonder inn with Lord Meltenbourne’s pistol pointed in my face, demanding to know where you were, I felt no compulsion to immediately set the matter aright.”

“It’s just like you to take the easy way out, leaving the mess for someone else to clean up.” Claxton released him with a snarl. “You will apologize to her Grace.”

With a firm tug, Haden straightened the front of his rumpled waistcoat. Meeting Sophia’s gaze, he said, “My sincerest apologies, Duchess. I intended you no disr
espect
. I’m sincere when I say that.”

Sophia nodded, feeling it only right to acknowledge his apology, which appeared earnestly spoken.

“I’ve never had a pistol pointed to my face,” she replied. “I imagine the experience might momentarily alter one’s priorities as far as truth.”

Even so, Haden’s failure to set the matter straight only complicated the calamity of her marriage. Certainly the whole village, no matter how buried in snow, buzzed with the scandal.

To Claxton, Haden said, “Why are you here after all? You should have remained at Camellia House. The situation would have calmed once the brandy ran out.”

They crossed the small courtyard toward the inn, Sophia at Claxton’s side. Lady Meltenbourne trailed along behind, her arms embracing her own shoulders. As they crossed the threshold, the villagers crowding the windows fell back against the far wall, a silent ripple of head bobs and curtsies. What was more mortifying? That they had just witnessed a gun battle involving her husband and his brother and an earl who shouted allegations of cuckoldry, or that moments before they may have witnessed her and Claxton’s unseemly kiss?

Sophia blinked, her eyesight adjusting to the dark interior, as the common room returned to its customary movement and clamor. Despite the awkwardness of their entrance, the mingled scents of burning wood, ale, and gingerbread delighted her senses, as did the room’s warmth. Christmas greenery hung above the fire and over the windows. Mistletoe encircled a chandelier at the center of the room. Curiously, beneath the wooden light fixture sat the plainest girl Sophia had ever seen, wearing a mulish expression and a shapeless sack of a cloak. Though villagers crowded the floor, the circle of space around the girl spoke painful volumes, so much so that Sophia momentarily forgot her own troubles.

From the floor above came bellows and thumps, evidence of a continuing struggle to subdue Lord Meltenbourne. Claxton lowered her valise to the carpet and without further preamble disarmed Haden of his pistol.

“I’ll be gone only a moment.” Firearm in hand, he climbed the steps. Haden muttered something about duty and followed.

“Gor! ’E looks just like the old duke, ’e does,” a wizened old man marveled.

“Eerie so,” said another.

“Let’s ’ope the similarities only go so far as ’is looks.”

“Indeed.”

A woman wearing a brisk but amiable expression emerged from the shadows and bobbed. “Your Grace?”

“Yes.”

The woman smiled warmly. “I am Mrs. Stone. My husband and I, Mr. Stone, keep this humble inn. May I say what an honor it is to have the duke and your Grace visit our establishment. The whole village has waited with hopeful anticipation these past three years for the new Duke of Claxton to visit.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Stone. And may I say what a fine inn you have here and smelling so delightfully of gingerbread.”

The innkeeper flushed deeply, two bright apples on her cheeks. “Anything to keep old Jack Frost at the door so we might enjoy this Christmas.”

“I’ve rarely seen such a heavy snowfall. I must admit to coming into the village to discover if travel into London might be possible today.”

“Oh no, madam.” She let out a wry chuckle. “There’s far too much snowfall on the roads for the post chaise to make it through and great sheets of ice floating on the river. Certainly not enough for a frost fair, but enough to keep the barges in for safety. No one is willing to go out after the tragedy three years ago.”

“What tragedy was this?”

Mrs. Stone’s face grew solemn. “One of the local barge masters thought to bring one last load of coal over, but ice converged. Crushed the barge it did, and the vessel sank. Both him and his middle boy perished. A terrible loss for the family, and indeed, the entire village.”

“Yes, I could see that it would be,” Sophia murmured. “How awful.”

No matter how strong her desire to escape Claxton, she would never ask anyone to endanger their life for her convenience or comfort. And so it seemed she would be lodging in Lacenfleet for at least one more night.

Mrs. Stone added, “It won’t be the first time we’ve been snowbound here in Lacenfleet, and it won’t be the last. We are as prepared as we can possibly be, if only to sit by the fire and wait for the thaw.”

Her situation confirmed, Sophia allowed herself to be led to an upholstered armchair, which a luxurious blue cloak was draped over, a garment she recognized from the night before. With a mirthful little snort, Mrs. Stone tossed the cloak onto a less commodious, ramshackle chair several feet farther away from the hearth.

“The mistletoe is very festive,” remarked Sophia. “And the garland hung over the fire.”

The inn mistress straightened the cushion. “Some of the older folk claim it is bad luck to hang greenery before Christmas Eve, but I pay them no mind. Lacenfleet’s luck can’t get much worse, I say.” She chuckled wryly, and at the corner of her eyes, her temples crinkled.

Sophia had the distinct impression Mrs. Stone wished her to inquire more about Lacenfleet’s luck, and so she complied.

Mrs. Stone clasped her hands in front of her apron. “Bad crops. No work. It happens to everyone. Things will improve, I vow, but it makes a dreary Christmas for some. I’ll tell you one thing, though.” She lowered her voice. “If his lordship decided to open Camellia House and staff her right, there’d be no shortage of qualified household help.”

“I’ll be certain to tell his Grace.” She could always write him a letter once she returned to London, but she didn’t know if her word would hold any sway.

Sophia’s gaze fell again on the center of the room, where the girl still sat, arms crossed, under the chandelier. “How long has that young woman been sitting there under the mistletoe? I can only assume she is waiting for a kiss from some handsome young fellow?”

“That’s Charlotte, the poor dear.” Mrs. Stone sighed and shook her head. “Too old now to remain in the orphan house where she grew up, she just hasn’t found her place. She’s been doing a bit of scullery for Mr. Stone and me in exchange for a place to sleep in the kitchen, but I’m not certain how long we’ll be able to keep her.”

Fine brown hair hung limply against Charlotte’s cheek, and the petticoat she wore was hopelessly frayed. Yet the girl sat in the chair proudly, shoulders back, her face a portrait of pride and determination. Everything about the girl touched Sophia’s heart.

“She wants a kiss that badly?”

“Not only a kiss, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Stone winked. “She wants a husband. That leggy farmer in the tall boots over there, to be exact, a widower with two young children in desperate need of a mother. Only he hasn’t looked at her once in the two hours he’s been here. Unfortunately, neither has anyone else.”

“How disheartening for Charlotte.”

Once Sophia was settled, Mrs. Stone pressed a warm mug into her hands and brought a plate of gingerbread for the side table. Sophia inhaled the tea’s fragrant steam and sampled the bread, determining the blend of spices to be superior to her own London cook’s recipe. Above her head, Claxton’s voice thundered, incomprehensible.

Lady Meltenbourne approached, her gaze settling waspishly on Sophia. With a huff, she sank into the inferior chair and with a dramatic wave of her arm draped herself in the cloak. Taking up a small beaded reticule, from which she extracted a mirror, she stared at her reflection, pinched her cheeks, and pursed her lips. Only Sophia realized Annabelle wasn’t looking into the mirror, but at her. Upon being caught, the countess looked away.

Sophia leaned forward in her chair. “You’re a married woman. A countess.” She kept her voice low so that only Annabelle could hear. “Don’t you care what people think about you and Lord Meltenbourne? What they say?”

“Of course I do. Do you think I wanted all of this attention?” Annabelle snapped, waving a hand to generally indicate the inn and its occupants. “The earl, when he drinks, becomes the most irrational and churlish creature. He is furious with me, but I am just as furious with him—but…but…oh, I don’t really want to talk about it to you.”

The countess twisted away, signaling an immediate end to their conversation. That suited Sophia just as well because she had nothing more to say to the woman, at least nothing an inn full of villagers should overhear. Instead she contented herself with sipping her tea, fuming silently, and listening to the villagers’ lively talk.

“Don’t matter if ’e’s an earl. Can’t have ’im goin’ about shootin’ at people,” said one young woman, counting out several stacks of playing cards.

“Right so,” agreed her partner in the game. “We can’t ’ave murder in the streets. Not this close to Christmas.”

Sophia sighed morosely, at last acknowledging that which she ought to have acknowledged from the start. Her rash decision to escape Claxton by coming to Lacenfleet had indeed been folly. With her grandfather’s health being so precarious, she simply could not miss Christmas. What if this was his last? What if even now he had taken a turn for the worse? She couldn’t bear the thought. She had six days to get home. Certainly this winter storm would not imprison her here until then.