by Dalton, Lily
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.
“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.”
Chapter Seven
Sophia 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.